How to Fall in Love With a Frenchman
by Mandelene
Summary: Sometimes, love is found in unexpected places, and sometimes, that place also happens to be an ER. This is the story of how Dr. Arthur Kirkland came to marry a Frenchman and the chaos that ensued afterward.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! (And more importantly, Happy Singles Awareness Day if you're like me). Here's a special little one-shot I wrote for the occasion. An anon requested a while back that I do a "Girlhood" origins story of how Francis and Arthur met while in college, but I kind of modified the idea and came up with something else. I hope you guys like it! Remember to tell a loved one how much you care about them today, even if it isn't a significant other.

* * *

Four more weeks until freedom.

In a month's time, Arthur will have completed the long, anxiety-packed, and sleep-deprived journey known as his residency program. He'll no longer have to cater to the whims of Yao, the uncompanionable, cold, standoffish—albeit brilliant—attending physician looming over him and keeping tabs on his every move.

Yet, these four weeks are likely to be hell, considering the last stretch to any finish line is often riddled with obstacles. Today is shaping up to be particularly hellish due to the ten inches of snow already piled outside with more accumulation forecasted to be on the way. Every now and then, hail the size of marbles will spontaneously fall from the gray sky, making an already miserable commute even worse. Clocking in on time this morning was a struggle in itself. After waking up an hour earlier than usual to shovel out the car, Arthur's still chilled to the bone, despite having had two cups of tea. Furthermore, his biceps, triceps, deltoids, and all of the other muscles in his upper body aren't pleased with him after such an early morning workout.

Now Arthur finds himself skulking around the ER, tending mostly to stomach flus and suspected fractures—common complaints during this time of the year. He's waiting on the lab to get back to him with the results of his flu-ridden patients' blood tests, but apparently, something is causing a hold-up downstairs because he's been waiting two hours longer than he usually does. He's already called to complain three times, but the situation doesn't seem to be improving.

As for the patients who aren't coughing, sneezing, running a fever, or losing their breakfast/lunch, most of them are in need of a CT scan or an x-ray, creating some traffic over at radiology. Arthur wouldn't mind the wait if it weren't for the fact that every fifteen minutes or so, a patient of his will wander out of bed to yell at either him or the nurse while he calmly explains there are some things in this hospital that are simply out of his control, but no one seems to be satisfied with that answer.

Four more weeks. Eventually, if all goes well, he'll be able to have a private practice somewhere in the middle of the suburbs, and he won't have to put up with the continuous insanity of the ER.

He tries to get some charting done, and as he's beginning to make a dent in his work, one of the nurses drops a new folder in his lap. This is officially his seventh assignment, and that's far too many patients for him to keep track of at one time. He would be able to discharge half of these patients if radiology would stop faffing about.

"Have fun," the nurse says dryly, and Arthur drags himself to room eight, where his new case is waiting.

He pulls back the privacy curtain with a sigh, invites himself in, and introduces himself the same way he always does.

"Good day, my name is Dr. Kirkland, and I'll be taking care of you today. What seems to be the problem?"

The patient is a man with wavy blond hair and a chin covered in grizzly stubble, yet, despite his rugged features, he still somehow manages to maintain an air of charm and put-togetherness. It's impressive, considering he's sprawled out on a stretcher.

"Don't laugh, but I slipped on some ice on my way home from buying groceries," the patient tells him, sounding a little frustrated with himself. "I'm hoping the only things I broke were the eggs."

"Don't worry, you're not the first person to have fallen today," Arthur assures. "When did this happen?"

"About two hours ago. I managed to get home, but an hour later, my shoulder started hurting, then my back, and now my foot. I came here to make sure it's nothing serious."

"You were right to come in. It's better to be safe than sorry with these matters," Arthur replies, flipping open the patient's chart to put a name to the man's face. Huh… Francis Bonnefoy—a Frenchman, no doubt. "Okay then, Francis. Let's have a look, shall we? I'm just going to do a quick physical exam."

Francis smiles cheekily back at him. "Now, now, doctor. Slow down. I didn't know we were already on a first-name basis."

"Hospital policy," Arthur quickly explains, a little flustered by the man's boldness. "We don't address patients by last names anymore. Supposedly, it's too formal and makes it difficult to establish rapport."

He lowers the right-hand rail of the stretcher with a click and pulls on a pair of gloves, regaining his professionalism. "Did the nurse give you something for the pain yet?"

Francis squirms, clearly suffering from a bit of white-coat syndrome as he says, "Yes, some Motrin."

"If the pain doesn't dissipate, I'll order something stronger. Did you hit your head when you fell?"

" _Non_ , I don't think so."

"All right, I'm going to check you over for a concussion anyway, just to be certain."

Arthur pulls a trusty penlight out of the front pocket of his white-coat, switches it on, and instructs, "Look straight at the light, Francis… Good. Now follow my finger. Do you feel dizzy or lightheaded at all?"

Now Francis is the flustered one, bothered by the closing distance between them. " _Non_."

"Can you tell me who the president is?"

"I could, but I'd rather not," Francis chuckles, and Arthur cracks a smile as well.

"Okay, I won't insist on a response, then. No need to get political. Can you give me today's date?"

"The fourteenth of February, Valentine's Day."

Valentine's Day? Is it really that time again? Arthur consults the calendar on his phone and nods. How could he forget? Not that it matters—it's a meaningless holiday created by large corporations to suck money out of customers' wallets.

"All right, you don't have a concussion," Arthur confirms. "Let's have a look at that shoulder now. Right or left?"

"Right."

"I'm going to pull your shirt aside for a moment," Arthur warns before exposing the area, and Francis flinches just the slightest bit. "There's definitely some swelling here. Can you try rotating your shoulder for me? Don't force it."

"Of course, anything for you, doctor," Francis says coyly before lifting his shoulder and letting out a horrible groan. "Agh, _merde_."

"It's all right," Arthur eases him before squeezing the shoulder, feeling along the joint. "It looks like a partial dislocation, so you'll need an x-ray."

"I dislocated my shoulder from slipping on ice?"

"Don't be alarmed. It's not as terrible as it sounds. I just want to make sure none of the bones are broken before I set it back into place. It shouldn't take longer than five minutes to fix once I make sure everything is as it should be on the x-ray," Arthur reassures, grabbing a disposable cold pack from a nearby cabinet on the wall and squeezing it until it makes a little popping noise, activating the cooling gel within the plastic. He places it against Francis's shoulder and tells him to hold it there.

"Turn onto your side, Francis. I need to see your back."

Complying, Francis rolls over with a little noise of complaint and tugs up his shirt, revealing the newly-formed bruises that are just now cropping up on his skin.

"I'm going to feel along the length of your spine. Tell me if you feel any pain."

Arthur starts right under Francis's neck and works his way down, silently counting each level of the vertebral column. The cervical segment is fine, and so is the thoracic, but then he hits a tender spot.

Francis yelps, and they both jump. "Ack, right _there_."

"That's your lumbar spine. I don't think you've broken or displaced anything here. It's probably just bruised and sore, but we'll get an x-ray of your lower back, too, just as a precaution. Any pain in your hips?"

"No."

"Good," Arthur says before walking down to the end of the stretcher. "Lie flat on your back and try to lift your right leg for me."

Obediently, Francis rolls to the original position he was in when Arthur first found him and raises his leg up.

Arthur grasps the limb in midair and runs his hand over it. "Can you push your leg down so that it's pressing against my hand…? Now bend your leg and pull it up to your chest… Good. You're doing well. Now we're just going to do the same thing with the other leg."

They repeat the motions with Francis's left leg, and Arthur's sufficiently satisfied with his findings. "All right, all that's left are your feet. Which foot was causing you trouble?"

"The left one."

"I'm going to take your shoe off to have a better look."

"Okay, _mon ami_."

Arthur thinks nothing of Francis's response and checks over his ankle, noting any inflammation or redness. "Can you move your toes? Hmm… Now bend your foot forward… Again, I don't think there's a fracture here, but even if there is, it's small. We'll add this to your list of x-rays."

"Am I going to make it out of here in one piece, doctor?" Francis jokes, and Arthur shrugs his shoulders and smirks.

"You just might. Stay here and rest. Someone will be in to take you for your x-rays, but be prepared for a bit of a wait. I'll have the nurse bring some more cold packs for your back and ankle," Arthur finishes up, throwing out his gloves in the nearby bin.

"Will you be back?" Francis asks, sounding worried.

"Yes, once the results of the x-rays come in."

And is it just his imagination, or is Francis actually _relieved_ to know he'll be returning?

What a strange man. It probably has something to do with him being French.

* * *

"Kirkland, your patient in bed two vomited again," Yao says just as Arthur attempts to sit down for a second.

Of course. Why should he have expected anything different? He's not going to get a break today, not with the way things are going.

"All right, I'll order eight milligrams of Zofran."

"And bed five needs to be admitted and transferred to telemetry."

Arthur nods and drags himself over to the nurses' station, chanting over and over to himself that things will be better soon. He won't have to work such atrociously long shifts, and he'll be able to pride himself on being a real doctor that doesn't have to answer to a superior senior. He won't have to be flooded in all of the assignments Yao dishes out on him. He swears the man is giving him the tedious patients on purpose rather than dividing them up equally amongst the rest of the staff. He doesn't know what he did to upset Yao, but he must have some kind of personal vendetta against him.

By the time he's arranged for the anti-nausea medication and made sure his other patient is going to be transferred (thankfully, that means he'll have one less patient to manage), Yao has another request of him.

"Kirkland, bed eight's x-rays came back. Come here and tell me what you see."

It's Francis's spine. Radiology must be getting their affairs in order because the wait for the results actually wasn't grueling this time around.

Arthur lets his eyes rove down the length of the image and says, "Mild levocurvature of L-2 and L-3. That's all."

Yao nods in agreement and moves over to the next x-ray, Francis's shoulder. "And here?"

"Acute anterior dislocation—subcoracoid."

Again, Yao approves and moves on to the last x-ray, the ankle. "Last but not least?"

Arthur thinks for a moment, gives himself extra time to look closely to make sure he isn't missing anything, and decides, "Nothing. Everything looks normal."

"Good. You're going to have to set his shoulder. Have you ever done this before?"

"Yes, a few times," Arthur says, but he's not all that confident.

"I want to see you do it."

Again, Arthur isn't surprised by this. Generally, only residents who're just starting out are given this kind of intense supervision, but Yao always insists on scrutinizing every little thing he does, looking for mistakes even though Arthur's about to be granted his independence. He can't mess up now. One error and Yao will find an excuse to penalize him severely for it.

He heads back into Francis's room with Yao in tow and does his best to pretend the elder doctor isn't there. He can handle this. No need to be nervous. He's done this before. Everything will be fine.

"Francis, this is Dr. Yao, the attending physician here. He's going to observe while I treat your shoulder. The x-rays showed that it's dislocated. However, the good news is that your ankle is fine, and so is your back, aside from some levocurvature—which simply means your lumbar spine is aligned slightly to the left," Arthur explains, trying to be succinct yet clear.

Francis seems a little overwhelmed by this information, but he does an admirable job of trying to keep up. "Isn't it bad that my spine is misaligned?"

"No, it's normal. Your spine has likely always been slightly off center. It's nothing to worry about," Arthur clarifies before pulling on a fresh pair of gloves and blocking out Yao's stare. "It's very important that you stay relaxed and very still as I do this, all right? I'm going to need you to take off your shirt and lie on your stomach."

Francis smiles a sly smile, and Arthur inwardly growls back at him, hoping beyond all hope that Francis won't take this opportunity to embarrass him or make his job more difficult.

"Well, Dr. Kirkland, I thought you might treat me to dinner first, but if you're so eager—"

Oh, God. What's he supposed to say to _that_? It's not as though he hasn't had patients flirt with him before—a dose of Percocet or morphine is usually enough to impair any patient's judgment enough to make them say things they wouldn't normally say, but Francis isn't even medicated, so what's his excuse?

He tries to play it off with dark humor—his specialty. "Yes, well, the ER is notorious for being fast-paced. We don't like formalities here. Come on, then, shirt off. Do you need help?"

Francis nods with another smile, sitting upright as Arthur begrudgingly eases the man's shirt over the aching shoulder. "Thank you, _mon ami_."

Arthur feels his face grow hot as he says, "Y-Yes, of course. Lie down on your stomach. I'll give you an injection of numbing medication in your shoulder to help with the pain, okay?"

"Okay."

He takes in a deep breath and prepares the syringe, carefully measuring out a generous dosage of a local anesthetic. The last thing he wants is to have to put up with the Frenchman's gripes as he's trying to focus and has Yao's searing gaze on his back.

"Ready?" Arthur asks, pressing down on Francis's healthy shoulder to keep him still.

"As ready as I'll ever be."

And with that, Arthur sterilizes the injection site and cautiously pushes the needle in. Francis tenses up slightly from the pain, but he, fortunately, doesn't complain.

"Well done," Arthur commends him, patting his back appraisingly.

"Are you going to snap my shoulder into place now?" Francis asks, and his cheeky lilt has been replaced with one of apprehension.

"Snap is not the word I would use in this context. I won't be snapping anything," Arthur says with what he hopes is a soothing smile. "Just hold still and you'll be fine. I'm going to gently ease your shoulder back to where it should be. You don't have to worry about a thing. Furthermore, our attending physician is right here, and I can assure you he won't stand for the slightest hint of incompetence. You're in good hands. I'm going to start now, okay?"

"All right, _mon ami_. I am putting my full trust in you," Francis says into his pillow, voice muffled.

"I'm just going to massage your shoulder first to loosen the muscles. Let me know if you feel any pain," Arthur warns before getting straight to work. He takes a deep breath and kneads the muscles in Francis's shoulder, making slow, circular motions. "How're you feeling?"

"Fine. It's been a while since I've had a massage," Francis jokes, letting his eyes slip shut with a sigh.

"Good, stay nice and relaxed, Francis."

"As always, anything for you, _mon ami_."

"You're going to feel a pull now. Don't move."

"I won't."

Arthur urges the joint to fall back into place, tugging carefully on it. He stops when Francis lets out a small hiss. "Did that hurt?"

" _Oui_ , a little."

This isn't going to work if he doesn't manage to find a way to distract Francis. He needs him to stay as relaxed as possible. "So, what do you do for a living, Francis?"

"I'm a chef at a restaurant uptown."

"You don't say? What's your favorite thing to make?"

"Pastries—probably macarons or cheesecakes," Francis murmurs, patiently holding still. Arthur's fingers are still digging into his muscles, but it's not hurting anymore. "I could treat you to some dessert sometime."

"That sounds lovely."

"Why do you get to ask all of the questions? That's the problem with doctors—they're so stoic."

Arthur huffs. "What do you want to know?"

"What are your plans for Valentine's Day? You seem like the romantic type."

At that, Arthur can't help but laugh darkly. "I'll be going home to a nice cup of tea and a good book."

"Really? An accomplished young doctor like yourself doesn't have a partner? That's a crime."

"I simply don't have the time," Arthur counters lamely, removing his hands from Francis's shoulder. "All done."

Francis blinks, sits up, and rolls his shoulder, testing it. "Already? How did you do that?"

Arthur tilts his head to the side, furrows his brows at the shoulder from a distance, and says, "Magic. Don't move it around so much. You need to rest it. How does it feel?"

"Much better, _merci_."

"Excellent. I'll get the paperwork to have you discharged. From now on, watch your step when the road is icy and rest for another day or two before resuming your normal activities. Don't do anything strenuous with your shoulder. It'll have to be immobilized in a sling for the next five to seven days."

"You're getting rid of me so soon? We were just getting to know each other," Francis frowns, genuinely disappointed.

"You're well enough to go home," Arthur retorts as he cleans up. "The nurse will be in with some forms for you to sign along with a detailed description of what precautions you ought to take for the next few days. You should schedule an appointment with your GP next week to make sure everything is healing properly."

He steps out of the room with Yao on his coattails, and once they're far enough from Francis's room, Yao grabs his arm and pulls him to a stop, brown eyes twinkling.

"Well done, Kirkland," the man says, and it's the first time Arthur has received a compliment from him. The profoundness of the moment isn't lost on him.

"Thank you, sir."

"Do you know why I always yell at you, Kirkland?"

"Because it builds character?" Arthur nervously guesses with a bit of sarcasm. Frankly, he's quite drained and can't wait to go home, but he still has five hours to kill. "I-I don't know, sir."

"It's because you're an idiot," Yao says firmly, and Arthur feels his heart drop and smash against his gut. "You're an idiot because you don't see what a fine doctor you are. You're more capable than most of the people in this entire hospital, and yet, you're still afraid of me and don't have enough courage to assert yourself. How are you going to be a doctor if you don't have the confidence for it? If you're always worried about what I will say or think about your decisions?"

Well… He certainly hadn't expected this. Suddenly, his hands are shaking, and he has to stuff them in his pockets to hide them. In a convoluted way, Yao's right. He's still too jittery and jumpy—too focused on the opinions of his superiors when he should trust in himself to make the right decisions.

Yao puts a strong hand on his shoulder and adds, "You just managed to almost painlessly fix a dislocated shoulder, something which most orthopedic surgeons can't even do without putting the patient through stress, and how many shoulders have you fixed in your time here, Kirkland?"

"Three or four."

Yao scoffs. "See? I can only dream the other residents on this unit will someday be capable of what you can do. It might take them a hundred times to get it right. I'm giving you a hard time because I know you're the only one who can handle it… Now, hurry up and deal with bed two again—make sure the Zofran is working and the woman isn't dehydrated."

Arthur nods and hastily rushes off, heart still pounding beneath his ribcage. He just got _complimented_ by Yao. It's so surreal he feels dizzy. All this time, he thought the physician didn't take him seriously and thought of him as a complete failure—a mousy new grad with zero credentials—but that clearly isn't the case any longer. He must be dreaming. He's so sleep-deprived he might as well have fallen asleep in the conference room at some point and has yet to wake up.

He pinches himself to be sure… He's awake.

A triumphant smile crosses his face, but he quickly bites it down. Better not to get too cocky, or he'll leave himself vulnerable to making mistakes.

* * *

At a quarter to six o'clock, a bedraggled but stable-looking Francis comes trudging down the hall in his winter coat. There's a small limp in his step as he walks, and his shoulder is now secured in a sling, but otherwise, he looks fine and far less pained than when he first came in. Arthur catches sight of him from the corner of his eye, and he works up the bravado to wave goodbye to him.

Francis turns to him with an irritatingly lopsided grin and comes limping on over, taking it as an invitation to talk, but honestly, Arthur was just trying to be polite.

"Dr. Kirkland?" he asks, leaning on the desk of the nurses' station.

"Yes? Is something wrong?"

"No, I just wanted to properly thank you for putting me back together again," Francis says with a charismatic chuckle.

No, not charismatic. What the hell is wrong with him today? The man's a patient. Well, former patient, but still.

"Would you object to joining me for dinner some time? I'll cook."

Arthur chokes on his own saliva and has to excuse himself, blushing furiously because at least three nurses and another physician are witnessing this exchange. "Ahem… That's very kind of you, however—"

"My treat. I insist."

"You won't be doing any cooking with that shoulder of yours," Arthur reminds, pointing out the hitch in Francis's plan.

"Then, let me buy you dinner. Consider it a Valentine's Day gift. I know your cup of tea and your novel are very important and are waiting for you, but do you think they could wait an extra hour or two?"

"A-As in a date?"

"Yes, I believe that's what it is called."

In his short twenty-five years of life on this planet, Arthur has never once gone on a date with anyone. In fact, it's a personal policy of his to avoid even the tiniest inkling of a romantic interest or endeavor. He's not dateable. He'd make a horrible partner. He's aloof, disagreeable at best—he has never even kissed anyone. He's always planned to be on his own because relationships lead to drama, which he's never been good at confronting. Then, there's always the possibility of commitment, and after commitment comes a family, and dear God, he'd never be able to be a father, that's for certain. Children are completely out of the question.

"So? What do you say?" Francis prompts him, expectant eyes glimmering back at him.

"I-I don't think that would be a good idea."

"Oh, come on, Arthur. Have a little fun. I don't bite! I don't know what English propaganda has permeated your skull, but I promise all of your conceptions of the French are likely inaccurate or exaggerated at best. We're friendly company."

Yes, Francis was right, the whole first-name-basis thing is too quick and forward. Something in his chest contracts when he hears his name being uttered by the man. It's… It's nice.

"It's just dinner."

Right, just dinner. Nothing to panic over. They'll have a good meal, unwind, and call it a day. That'll be the end of that. Why not allow himself to be treated to some free food? What harm could it cause?

"All right," Arthur finally agrees, thoughts zipping through his mind with immeasurable speed. "Dinner, it is."

And somehow, for reasons he may never understand, one date turns into two. Then, three. Then, four. Then, suddenly, they're together for six months. One year. Two years. They move in together. Francis proposes during a trip to Cancun. And then, the most shocking thing of all happens—they have a family. Two twin girls, and Arthur isn't sure how his life took such a sharp turn. It's all because of a fall and a dislocated shoulder on Valentine's Day.

* * *

 _Ten years later._

"Ugh, I don't want to hear this story again. It's so _boring_!" Amelia grumbles as she and Madeline listen to Francis reminisce on the couch.

"I knew from the moment I saw him that he was the one for me. Don't let anyone tell you love at first sight doesn't exist," Francis continues, unfazed by Amelia's complete lack of interest. "Your father was the best thing that ever happened to me—aside from adopting you girls, of course."

And even though Arthur knows the story like the back of his hand, and the girls are more than tired of hearing it, he still gets a little giddy every time Francis recounts the tale. That's how he knows he's truly in love—every year is better than the last. He knows it's cheesy, but it's the truth.

"Happy Valentine's Day, _mon amour_ ," Francis says, drawing him into a kiss.

Arthur returns the affectionate gesture and laughs when he hears the girls groan and shout "ewww" in unison.

"Happy Valentine's Day, my frog."


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** This second chapter/sequel was requested by **icicle223** on Tumblr and was part of my weekend writing challenge. I managed to finish it in time! Woo-hoo! Who knows, there might even be a part three to this story at some point if you guys want to see it. I hope you enjoy the chapter, and please leave a review if you can!

* * *

It's just dinner, pull yourself together, Arthur tells himself as he clocks out of his shift at the hospital and shrugs off his white coat.

Dinner dates aren't as official as date-dates anyway. There's no need to worry. All he has to do is endure a little small talk, be polite, and then go home to the lovely solitude of his apartment and put all of this behind him. No problem. This'll be fine. It'll be lovely—a nice chance to decompress and enjoy himself.

Except what if he runs out of things to say? Or worse, what if he says something completely idiotic or commits a social _faux pas_? What is one supposed to accomplish throughout the span of a date? Is there a checklist of basic topics that should be covered? Does he have time to look up some tips online?

He folds his white coat neatly and stores it in his messenger bag along with his stethoscope and allows himself a quivering breath. He's getting clammy and claustrophobic. His heart rate must be over a hundred, and his blood pressure could be skyrocketing. His anxiety turns his legs into gelatin, and he grips the counter of the nurses' station to steady himself. Is he going to have a heart attack or collapse from stress? Would that be the preferable alternative to going on this damned date? If he faints, he won't be obligated to go anywhere.

Francis is waiting for him in the little sitting area outside the unit, and it takes all of Arthur's resolve to march himself over to him. The poor man has been waiting long enough, and considering Francis' injuries, it's miraculous he hasn't decided to get up and leave in order to get some much-needed and overdue rest.

Francis exudes the pinnacle of happiness and enthusiasm despite having one arm in a sling and a compression bandage snugly wrapped around his sprained ankle. When he rises from his chair, he grimaces just for a second at the trouble his sore back must still be causing him.

"I was beginning to worry you had changed your mind," Francis says with a teasing half-smile.

"Are you sure you're feeling well enough for this? We can reschedule or—"

"You're not going to get rid of me that quickly, Dr. Kirkland."

Arthur feels his cheeks flush with color. "I wasn't trying to—"

"I know, I'm only joking," Francis chuckles before hobbling toward the lobby. His tenacity is admirable.

Arthur offers to help him walk but is promptly rejected. Francis seems intent on proving he is capable of managing on his own, god knows why.

Just as he is ready to ask where they're going, Francis leads him around the corner and down a few blocks before stopping in front of a nearby restaurant packed with couples ranging from young, old, and every life stage in between. It is, after all, Valentine's Day, and it's no wonder the place is busy.

"Looks as though it's going to be a long wait," Arthur remarks, increasingly disheartened by this whole ordeal. He should have firmly refused Francis' invitation and gone home. It would have been better for both of them in the long run.

"Ahh, do not worry, I had the forethought to call an hour ago to reserve a table."

This man has an answer for everything, doesn't he? The thought makes Arthur a tad envious.

Sure enough, the moment they step inside, Francis says, "Reservation for Bonnefoy, please," and they are led through the maze of tables right away and over to an empty spot in the large dining room. Each table has a flickering candle and a vase with flowers as a centerpiece. Along with the choir of clinking silverware and wine glasses, it serves to set a calm and soothing atmosphere.

They sink into chairs across from each other as a waitress hands them each a menu and asks if she can start them off with some drinks.

Francis inquires about their extensive wine collection and chooses one from the list the waitress rattles off at him.

"And for you, sir?" she asks Arthur.

He pauses and, to his great embarrassment, realizes he's been ogling Francis for the past few minutes and hasn't been paying any attention to the menu. What is _wrong_ with him tonight?

"He'll have the _pinot gris_ as well," Francis says, coming to his rescue with a warm grin.

"Okay, I'll give you both a few minutes to decide on the rest of your order."

" _Merci beaucoup_."

Arthur swallows hard and inwardly winces at how dry his throat is. This always happens to him when he's nervous—his mouth turns into the Sahara Desert.

"Dr. Kirkland?" Francis murmurs with a concerned frown. "Are you all right?"

Arthur rubs the back of his neck and nearly lets a groan slip when he realizes he's perspiring furiously. "P-Please, call me Arthur."

"Your wish is my command. So, tell me about yourself. I know we talked earlier, but now I have to ask the real questions. What are your hobbies? Do you enjoy sports? Have a favorite color?" Francis continues, smiling with his blue eyes, and something in Arthur's stomach bursts with nausea.

Arthur begs himself to relax as he clears his horrendously dry throat. "Unfortunately, my job leaves very little time for leisure."

"That answers the first two questions, I suppose. And your favorite color? You can tell a great deal about a person by their color choices."

"Is that so? What does blue say about me, in that case?"

"You're a contemplative person—but you don't share what's on your mind with just anyone. You require space. Distance builds fondness for you," Francis claims, tracing a hand over his recovering shoulder.

"You can tell all of that from one color?" Arthur asks, very skeptical but playing along anyway. "Don't fiddle with your shoulder, you'll just irritate the injury."

Francis drops his healthy arm obligingly and says, "Maybe it was just a lucky guess."

Arthur snorts, and then silently cringes at how hideous he's being. "Do tell what your favorite color is, Mr. Clairvoyance."

"Oh, no, I don't like to categorize myself by just one color choice, so I won't answer that question," Francis smirks, leaning back. "You must truly enjoy your job, since you devote all of your time to it."

"I knew medicine would be a twenty-four-hour job, especially for the first few years, and though there are days when I wonder why in the world anyone would agree to being routinely assaulted by bodily fluids and millions of bacteria, I do, on the whole, find it to be very rewarding work… You mentioned you cook? That must be something you do in your free time as well."

Francis nods. "Yes, it is, but you know what they say—work you love never really feels like work at all."

The waitress brings them their wine, and Arthur randomly orders the first dish he finds while skimming the endless column of entrée options. Francis, being the food expert he is, seems to have a much better idea of what he wants to satiate his tastes.

It takes Arthur twenty minutes to finally stop shaking and sweating. He thanks the wine for accomplishing that for him, as it really is rather excellent and refreshing. It's just enough to ease his tangled mess of nerves.

Francis talks a bit more about the restaurant he works for and how he'd like to own his own bistro someday. "Food brings people joy, regardless of who they are or where they come from. It is a language everyone speaks," he says, and Arthur is impressed. He imagines Francis toiling over crepes and serving them on dainty plates with flowers painted on the porcelain.

Shortly after their waitress brings them their food, and Arthur is forced to acknowledge his sudden loss of appetite, the sound of wailing fills the entire dining area as an exhausted mother and father amble to a table a short distance away from them with their three children. The oldest child is no more than six years old, and a quarrel ensues as the boy gets into a fight with his little sister about the seating arrangement.

"I have the greatest sympathy for people with children," Francis comments softly before swirling his wine around in his glass and taking a careful sip.

Arthur hums noncommittally and tries to avert his attention away from the screaming children and back to his dinner, which consists of grilled fish and a rainbow of steamed vegetables he didn't realize he'd ordered. Francis also has some kind of seafood before him, but it's more aesthetically pleasing to the eye—and thus, it's likely twice as expensive as an ordinary dish because of the mere effort put into its presentation.

Arthur has never been picky about food. Food provides sustenance, and as long as it serves its function in terms of basic nutritional values, why bother with how it looks? Francis, however, would likely have a far different opinion and be offended by his ignorance.

The rambunctious children nearby become hard to ignore as their screaming continues with renewed fervor. The same boy and his sister knock over a bowl of breadsticks with their inquisitive hands.

"Colin, how many times do I have to tell you to share?" the mother asks, exasperated.

"Lucy started it!"

"No!"

"I hate you!" Colin shouts.

"I hate you more!" his sister, Lucy, snaps back in between howls.

"Stop it, both of you! I've had enough!" the mother tries to reprimand them while bouncing the youngest child, a one-year-old boy, in her lap.

And suddenly, the screaming stops as quickly as it broke out. The mother looks visibly relieved, until Lucy clutches at her neck with both hands and doubles over.

Recognizing that look of distress, Arthur blinks once to confirm he's seeing what he thinks he's seeing and bolts out of his chair and over to the family without wasting another moment, not even remembering to excuse himself.

"Lucy?" the mother asks with concern, eyes widening.

"Your daughter is choking," Arthur says hurriedly as he reaches the girl's side. He pats the child's back firmly and tries to encourage her to cough, but it doesn't seem to do any good—the girl's airway must be too obstructed. She can't speak or gather enough air to cough.

It doesn't take long for her lips to take on a bluish hue—cyanosis.

Arthur stands the girl up, pushes her chair aside, and kneels down behind her to be at her level. He shoves up his sleeves to his elbows, curls one hand into a fist, places it right above the child's bellybutton, and then covers the fist with his other hand before pushing against her abdomen in an upward motion to help her spit up whatever she's choking on.

The rest of the family is beside themselves, and Arthur can feel Francis staring at him from his peripheral vision.

"Come on now," Arthur urges the girl as his efforts continue to fail.

"Arthur…" Francis gasps, now standing beside him. He's gawking at the child's panicked face, horrified.

The whole restaurant, including the kitchen staff, is observing anxiously, stricken.

And then, without warning, Lucy loses consciousness and falls into Arthur's arms, limp.

"Damn it," Arthur blurts out by accident, gently lowering the girl to the ground as her mother lets out a frightened shout. He turns to the child's father and calmly instructs, "Call 911."

He addresses Francis next, "Ask an employee for the CPR kit. They'll know what I'm referring to. Every restaurant has one. Hurry."

Then, once that's all done, Arthur tilts the girl's head back, opens her mouth, and uses the penlight he always keeps in his pocket to illuminate her airway. He can see a half-chewed chunk of breadstick lodged there, but there's no conceivable way he'll be able to get it out without doing more harm than good. He doesn't have the right equipment on him to perform a bronchoscopy and get it out with forceps.

"Arthur," Francis whispers helplessly from above as he returns with the kit. "Is she going to be all right?"

"She's coding," Arthur replies before placing two fingers against the side of the girl's neck and confirming his suspicions when he doesn't feel a pulse. "Tear open the kit, take out the mask inside, and put it over her mouth," he orders as he begins chest compressions.

The girl's body rises and falls from the force, and after thirty compressions, Arthur attempts to give the girl a breath of air, not very hopeful it'll do much good since her airway is still blocked—but he has to try something. He makes sure Francis has adjusted the mask properly, tilts the girl's head back again, and exhales slowly into the plastic nub of the mask.

When the breath doesn't help, he continues the chest compressions, and he starts sweating profusely for the second time that night. He hopes help is almost here. He can't do this for much longer without an extra pair of hands.

"Is he a doctor?" someone asks.

 _26, 27, 28, 29, 30, another breath_.

"Is she dying?" another person cries out.

 _24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, breath._

Francis has a hand pressed against his mouth in alarm as he watches. " _Mon dieu_."

 _20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, breath._

He checks for a pulse…

Got it.

The paramedics come in, and Arthur quickly gets out of their way, letting them take over.

"She needs an emergency bronchoscopy. She has a breadstick in her airway—a starchy food that has expanded by absorbing mucus. She has a pulse now," Arthur informs them as he helps move the girl onto a stretcher and gives himself a second to catch his own breath.

"Oh, hey, Dr. Kirkland. Didn't think we'd be running into you here," one of the paramedics says with a cheeky smile. "Are you tagging along?"

"No, I'm not a relative, I just—" Arthur begins to say before the girl's father cuts him off by grasping him by the wrist and hauling him to walk alongside the paramedics to the exit.

"Help her, please. I want you to go with her," the man requests.

Conflicted, Arthur follows the crew outside to the waiting ambulance. He spins his head around to find Francis standing in the doorway of the restaurant's entrance with a wan smile on his face. He waves a hand to gesture that Arthur should go.

"Give me one moment," Arthur says to the father before jogging over to Francis with an apology already on his tongue.

"It's okay. Twenty-four-hour job, _oui_?" Francis assures, but Arthur frowns nonetheless and hands Francis the money for his meal.

"Thank you for dinner. I'm sorry."

Why does his chest feel all hot all of a sudden? The way Francis is looking at him with a mix of remorse and admiration…

He wrenches himself toward the ambulance. It seems he can't have a normal date like most people on Earth. Frankly, it doesn't surprise him at all that something like this had to happen on his _one_ night out.

Duty calls.

* * *

"Is my little girl going to be all right?" Lucy's father asks as they arrive at the emergency room Arthur thought he wouldn't be returning to tonight.

Yao isn't around either—must have gone home. Someone else has taken over.

"Can someone answer me?" the father demands, and Arthur puts a hand on his shoulder as they reach the double doors of the unit.

"Sir, please wait out here while we treat your daughter. Someone will let you know when you can see her," Arthur finally tells him.

The father puts his head in his hands and does what is asked, not putting up a fight, and Arthur can't help but feel sorry for him.

Fortunately, he won't have to be the bearer of bad news today because after the bronchoscopy Arthur suspected the girl would need, she is stable again. Aside from a sore throat, some wooziness from being put under anesthesia, and a broken rib from the repeated chest compressions done on her, she is all right and is expected to make a full recovery.

He's just leaving the room when he runs into the father again, who is drenched in tears of relief. The older man doesn't hesitate to give Arthur a hug and says, "Thank you. You helped save my daughter's life, and I'll never be able to repay you."

"I'm happy to have been able to help," Arthur says reassuringly. "And I wish your daughter a speedy recovery."

He leaves and runs a hand over his face. What a day. Just this morning, he wasn't sure if he was going to make it to work on time because of the snow, and now it seems like that happened ages ago. He's a completely different person now.

"Arthur, did she make it through all right?"

To his amazement, Francis is standing by the nurses' station, waiting impatiently for an answer.

"She's fine. What are you doing here?"

"That's good. I was worried about the poor child. And what do you mean? We never finished our date!"

"I thought tonight was a prime example of why I _can't_ go on dates," Arthur sighs, more exhausted than he's been in a while.

"I don't see it that way at all. At least there's never a dull moment when you're around," Francis jokes, rubbing his shoulder and earning himself another chiding from Arthur.

"You've been out and about all day with those injuries of yours. Go home," Arthur insists, brushing past the man as he begins his retreat from the hospital for the second time that day. Is he going to make it to his car, or will he be expected to tend to another medical emergency?

"Are those doctor's orders?"

"Yes," Arthur replies flippantly, rummaging around his bag for his car keys.

"Could you slow down for just a minute?"

Frustrated with himself and the world at large for his romantic ineptitude, Arthur drops his bag in anger and leans against his car with a growl and another sigh.

Francis reaches out his healthy arm and touches his jaw, prompting him to look at him. "You know, there's something irresistibly attractive about a man who swoops in and heroically saves lives."

Arthur bites his tongue and laughs dryly. "I'm not a hero." He refuses to respond to the other half of the statement.

"Well, I think you are," Francis murmurs, closing the space between them and making Arthur's stomach rumble in that awfully uncomfortable and nauseous way again.

"What are you—?"

And before he can utter another word, Francis is kissing him. It's soft and feathery, and Arthur just stands there, feeling awkward and awful for not knowing what to do, but enjoying it far too much to pull away.

His first kiss. It took twenty-five years, but it has finally happened.

Francis releases him and smiles, blond stubble stretching across his face. A second later, he bursts into a relentless fit of laughter, and Arthur hopelessly watches. He's laughing at him, isn't he?

"Arthur Kirkland, you are the most peculiar man I've ever met."

Peculiar isn't a good thing, is it?

Francis scribbles something on a scrap of paper that he takes out of his wallet and says, "That's my number. Give me a call when you're free and maybe we'll have better luck on our next date."

Next date?

"You're blushing. It's wonderful," Francis teases, pecking his flaming red cheek. "Get home safe."

Francis walks off into the night, and Arthur remains petrified in place, hand clutching the piece of paper. His heart skips a beat. Should he admit himself so he can get an EKG? This persistent feeling of fullness in his chest is worrisome.

He picks up his bag, finally finds his keys, unlocks the car, and gets inside. He stares at his reflection in the rearview mirror, discovers how disheveled he is, and then takes a long look at the bright lights of the hospital. Did he hallucinate all of this? He checks the phone number on the paper, and it looks real.

He can even see Francis' leftover footprints in the snow.

He turns on the ignition, switches on the radio, and smiles—overcome with giddiness.

This is what love feels like.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** I've been in a crazy writing mood lately where I'm just dying to write something new every day, so please bear with me as I hop from story to story. Hozier's song "Like Real People Do" came up on my Pandora station and snippets of ideas for scenes just started flowing. So, I've decided I'm going to add a few more chapters to this fic.

Enjoy and please leave a review if you get the chance! Reviews give me a huge morale boost when it feels like everything I do is garbage, so they're very much appreciated, haha!

* * *

Waking up to the warmth of someone else's arms around him still feels foreign. It's been four years since Arthur met Francis, and two years since he went from being a bachelor to a married man, and yet, everything remains new and unchartered territory in many ways.

The smell of Francis's shampoo on his pillow, the clutter in the storage closet that's no longer just his clutter but _their_ clutter, the stubbly kisses and shared morning breath, making tea for two, hearing French songs waft from the shower and out into the hallway in the croaky warble of Francis's voice when they're both groggy—these are all new parts of his once meticulously planned and organized daily routine, and though the transition hasn't always been easy, it feels right. He belongs now—matters to someone on a personal level.

Arthur rolls out from underneath the covers, careful not to disturb Francis as he turns off his alarm and rises for another twelve-hour shift. One glance toward the window reveals that it's disgusting and muggy out, and while the last thing he wants to do is drive in this weather to the hospital just so he can treat abdominal pains, lacerations, and upper respiratory infections all day, he knows he doesn't have much of a say in the matter.

He heads over to the dresser and battles to find a pair of black socks from underneath all of Francis's. Honestly, how many times does he have to tell the man to keep his things in a separate drawer rather than chucking everything away haphazardously like this? He has already had to rearrange his sock drawer twice in the last six weeks. Would it kill him to keep his belongings in his own area?

After a five-minute shower and a quick shave, he brushes his teeth, caffeinates himself with plenty of tea, and gets dressed in his black trousers, blue dress shirt, and the red silk tie Francis got him last Christmas. He also grabs his messenger bag, stethoscope, and white coat (freshly pressed by Francis himself—he can be useful sometimes, apparently).

He opts to skip breakfast today because he's running a little late, and the anxiety of being behind schedule has quashed his appetite. Besides, if he sits around any longer and listens to the rain now pounding against the roof of the house, he'll be tempted to call out and stay home, and he's saving his sick days for the inevitable moment when a patient gives him a horrible infection or when he has a full-blown mental breakdown and needs to isolate himself from civilization for a week.

He snags his keys off of the side table in the foyer and rushes out the door, not even bothering to open up an umbrella because he knows he's going to get soaked either way. Fortunately, he makes it to the car without having to endure the buckets of water falling from the sky for too long, and since very few professions in this world demand that one faces nature's elements on a weekend like this, there aren't many other drivers on the road, meaning he arrives at the hospital with fifteen minutes to spare. He's allowed a moment to gather his bearings before he takes report and starts getting assignments.

His first patient of the day is a woman complaining of chest pain and shortness of breath—two nonspecific symptoms that could either be nothing serious or turn out to be life-threatening. In this case, it's life-threatening. He barely gets the chance to walk up to the woman's bedside before she loses consciousness.

As her son shouts and tries to rouse her, Arthur checks for a pulse, and when he doesn't find one, calls a code, tells the son to leave the room, and starts chest compressions while backup arrives. After intubation and two rounds of epinephrine, they are able to stabilize her, and she gets whisked up to the ICU.

What a way to start his morning.

He thinks the worst is over—that surely nothing can compete with such a lively beginning to his shift—but he's sorely mistaken. No more than twenty minutes later, a man collapses in front of the nurses' station and begins seizing. As a nurse runs to get an anti-convulsant, Arthur kneels beside him and makes sure he doesn't injure himself. Three minutes go by, and the seizure stops momentarily before it's replaced by another one just seconds later.

"He's in status epilepticus. Hurry with that lorazepam!" he says, raising his voice to emphasize the urgency of the situation.

Fortunately, the nurse returns, and Arthur wastes no time in giving the patient the injection of medication. It takes some time to work, but finally, the seizing stops. He lets the nurses and the physician actually assigned to the man's care handle things from there.

One look at his watch lets him know he's behind schedule again, so he hurries to his next patient—a teenager with a suspected leg fracture. He inspects the leg in question and orders an x-ray, and as he's placing the order, he tackles a portion of the horrific amount of charting he has to do while he's at the computer.

Then, he's off to tend to a hundred-four-degree fever and dehydration in an immunosuppressed elderly man followed by respiratory distress in a woman with COPD. He thinks he might get the chance to take a lunch break around noon, but then, he finds himself treating some burns and giving stitches to another teenager who had an unfortunate encounter with some fireworks. After patching the young man up, Arthur does some more charting, and by then, he has totally lost track of time.

Finally, at four o'clock in the afternoon, he gets the chance to eat his first meal of the day, but by that point, he's fairly tired and can't get himself to have more than half of a sandwich anyway. He watches the clock, hopes beyond hope that things will slow down (they don't), and when eight o'clock comes around, it's time for the night-shift to roll in. He hands off his patients to the next physician, lets out a long sigh of relief that the day is finally over, and gets back home around a quarter to nine.

He plods through the front door, wearily takes off his shoes and coat, and goes straight into the bathroom to take another hot shower, barely even saying hello to Francis. By the time he changes into something more comfortable and eats the leftovers from the dinner that Francis made, it's nearly ten o'clock. He's ready to crawl into bed, sleep, and wake up at six o'clock in the morning so he can do the same thing all over again tomorrow.

He's already curled up on his side with one pillow under his head and another pressed up against his chest when he feels Francis's arms snake around his middle to pull him close.

"Arthur," Francis purrs, reaching up a hand to smooth back his shaggy hair. "Say something. I haven't seen you all day."

"Mmm, tired," is all Arthur can mumble in response, lips barely moving.

"The night is still young. We can make something of it…Have some time for ourselves."

"Not tonight. Not in the mood."

"And tomorrow when you return from work, I assume you won't be in the mood either?"

"Correct. Maybe you're not as daft as you seem."

He can feel Francis scowling at him without even having to open his eyes.

"What made you so sour today?" Francis asks him, pulling his arms away and crossing them over his chest instead. "Is it too much to ask that my husband communicates with me every now and then?"

Not this conversation again. He wants to groan, but that'll only make Francis more irritated, so he pretends to fall asleep instead, hoping the man will postpone his rant for another day.

"Arthur? Stop ignoring me."

"I'm not ignoring you. I'm merely exhausted. Can we please talk about this some other time?" Arthur pleads with him, trying to be civil and polite. He doesn't want to argue tonight—doesn't have the energy for it.

"And when will that other time be? You're constantly at the hospital, and I can't call you while you're at work because you can't pick up your phone in the middle of your shift, so tell me, where do I fit in your schedule? Do I have to make an appointment?"

He doesn't need this right now, and not from Francis, of all people.

"I thought you understood what you were getting into when you proposed to me. Don't act as if this is some sort of new phenomenon. It's been going on for years. Why does it suddenly bother you now?"

Francis clicks his tongue angrily and huffs, "Why does it bother me? Because it's as though you're in two marriages at once—one with me and one with that damned job of yours."

"Again, nothing new. You're beating around the bush," Arthur grumbles, reluctantly sitting up. "What's this really about?"

Francis stares up at the ceiling and mutters, "Has it ever occurred to you that maybe I'd like it if we could settle down?"

"We have a house and stable careers. I thought we were settled down."

"I meant in terms of…" Francis pauses.

"Yes?"

The man nervously licks his lips and sighs, "In terms of having a family."

"Oh."

Well, Arthur's awake now, at least. All of his drowsiness leaves him, and he furrows his brows at Francis, processing everything he's just said. "I don't…A _family_? As in children?"

" _Oui_."

"I…I'm not sure I want children, to be entirely honest."

Francis doesn't say anything to that. He keeps staring at the ceiling, face blank.

And then, before Arthur can stop himself, he laughs. Maybe it's the mixture of exhaustion and stress that sends him over the edge, but he laughs and laughs until his stomach hurts and his eyes are watering.

"What's so funny?" Francis demands, not nearly as amused.

Arthur wipes at the corners of his eyes and coughs, struggling to catch his breath. "Children. _Children_ ," he says incredulously before laughing some more. "Do you really think I could ever be a _father_? Don't you see the humor in that?"

" _Non_ , I don't."

"You're serious?"

"Of course I'm serious, you insensitive idiot!" Francis shouts, smacking him with a pillow. "Forget it! Get out!"

Technically, this is _his_ bed, so he shouldn't have to go anywhere, but he supposes he's more likely to get a better night's rest on the couch at this point anyway, so he gathers his pillow and alarm clock and leaves the room without another word, deciding to let Francis brood.

Children! Hah! Sometimes the man's ideas are wild even by his own standards. This is what happens when Francis isn't working at the restaurant and is left home alone for too long. As the old saying goes, an idle mind is the devil's playground.

No matter. He's sure Francis will get over it by tomorrow.

 _Children! Hahahahaha!_

Unfortunately, little does Arthur know then that he won't be the one to get the last laugh.

* * *

Arthur knows he's being sent an omen when the following morning, one of the resident physicians comes up to him to make an odd request.

"Kirkland, I hate to be that guy, but would you mind helping me out with this one patient? The nurse has tried putting an IV into this kid twice now, and I've tried, too. Her veins are barely visible and tough to get at. Mind giving it a try? I don't think you've ever missed a vein since I've known you. I would really appreciate it."

"It's no trouble at all," Arthur assures, but if the nurse couldn't get a good vein, he's not confident he'll do that much better. There's a reason most IV insertions are left up to the nurses and not to doctors—they're more experienced with doing them every day. In fact, he's sure most of the physicians on the unit wouldn't be able to put in an IV on their first try if asked to do it.

"Thanks, I owe you."

He hopes by "kid," his colleague means the patient is an adolescent, but, lo and behold, when he walks into the room, he's greeted by the sight of a four-year-old girl and her mother. The girl's face is tearstained and her eyes are bloodshot—evidence of the poking and prodding she's already had to endure three times up until this point. He feels a pang of sympathy for the child. By the looks of it, she's battling some kind of cancer, and the last thing he wants to do is put her through additional pain. He knows now that he has to get this right.

"Hello, I'm Dr. Kirkland," he announces, shaking the mother's hand. "I hear there's been some trouble trying to insert your daughter's IV?"

"Nice to meet you, and yes, they've had to try a few times already. I know you guys are trying your best, but it's been frustrating."

"I understand. I'll do what I can," Arthur says with conviction because he knows no patient or family member wants to hear words along the lines of _hopefully_ or _maybe_ _we'll get it right this time_. As important as it is to be competent, it's also important to exude competence as well.

The moment he reaches the side of the bed, the girl shrieks and cries loudly, shaking with fear. Those damn fools left a traumatized child on his hands, and well, he's awkward at best when it comes to working with children. He much rather prefers adults or the elderly.

"Shh, honey, the nice doctor here is going to try to help," the mother tries to console her, and fortunately, it works to a certain extent, because the girl stops screaming and takes a good look at Arthur's eyes, and just like that, she quiets.

Then, she giggles quietly and says, "Funny eyebrows!"

What was that about his eyebrows? What's wrong with them? What an odd thing to say!

It doesn't matter. Now that the girl has settled down, he can get straight to work. He puts on a pair of gloves and gets an alcohol swab ready.

He recalls some of the developmental psychology literature he's read in his lifetime and remembers that it's important to have a young child of this age feel incorporated in what he's about to do and to make it seem like it's a game. The only problem is he knows absolutely nothing about the types of games children like, and he's not a very creative person in that regard.

"Can you hold out your arms for me?" he asks the child, hoping she'll listen because if she doesn't, then he's not sure what to do next.

"Like you're reaching out to someone to give them a hug," the mother explains, and the girl holds out her arms obediently a moment later.

Thank goodness for that.

He looks at the veins on the insides of her elbows first—not a chance he's getting an IV into any of those, but as evidenced by the pinprick red marks left behind by a needle, it's clear that this is where his colleagues tried and failed.

He looks at her hands instead and finds a usable vein on the back of her left hand, right beneath the knuckle of her middle finger. He presses down on it a couple of times to get it to expand and decides it'll have to do. He ties a tourniquet around the child's arm, disinfects the area he'll be working with using an alcohol swab, and makes sure he's got a properly sized gauge for the IV catheter—one of the thinnest ones he could find since the girl's only four.

The mother distracts her and gets her to turn her head in the opposite direction, and Arthur takes the opportunity to insert the needle, slowly and carefully. When he sees the hub of the IV catheter fill with a small amount of blood, that's how he knows he's succeeded. Then, it's just a matter of removing the needle so only the catheter remains and securing everything with a generous amount of medical tape.

"You got it?" the mother asks, sounding immensely grateful.

Arthur nods his head, discards everything he no longer needs, including his gloves, and says, "She should be able to start getting her medication now. I'll inform her nurse."

"Thank you so much."

"You're welcome."

The little girl seems relieved, too, because she shouts "Doctor Eyebrows!" at him and grins. "Thank you!"

He manages a smile back at the girl and says, "My pleasure. Get well soon, yes?"

"Wait!"

"Hmm?"

The girl brings her thumb up to her mouth and asks sheepishly, "Can I give you a hug?"

To say he's startled by the blatant request is an understatement. He's horrified. Never, _ever_ has a patient asked to hug him before, and furthermore, he's fairly certain he severely lacks what should be considered paternal instinct. Other individuals his age seem to have a magnetic pull toward children, as though it comes naturally to them. Francis can see a crying child in the park and feel a desire to help them—to protect them. He, on the other hand, sees a crying child and immediately gets a migraine and wishes he could vacate the premises as soon as possible.

So when he approaches the girl and she tosses her small arms around his waist, he flinches, unsure of what to do. Bumbling and graceless, he extends one hand to pat her back and is happy to be released from the embrace several seconds later.

Then, he flees the room and tries to block out the memory, panic-stricken.

Once he makes it safely back to the nurses' station, he's left with an airy feeling in his heart—like when a gust of wind cuts through one's hair and leaves one feeling free and alive.

He must be coming down with something quite dreadful.

* * *

"So, you're going to hold a grudge against me from now on, is that it?"

No answer. Infuriating man.

"Frankly, I think you're being selfish," Arthur goads him during dinner—the first dinner they've been able to eat together all week. "Just because you have certain expectations for this relationship, doesn't mean I should have to share those expectations."

Francis leaves his food untouched, letting it go cold as he hisses, "You're never interested in what I want."

"That's not true."

"Besides," Francis continues, "the only reason you're opposed to the idea is because you're afraid. Strangers put their lives in your hands every day, and now you want me to somehow believe you don't have the capability to be responsible for the life of a child."

"There's a difference between caring for others and caring for your _own_ family members. I don't know the first thing about being a father."

"No new parent does! You think we're born knowing how to raise children? It comes with time and experience, as with everything else."

"But I don't _want_ children. I thought I had already made that clear."

Francis frowns. "And why not? I won't bring this conversation up again if you give me a justifiable response."

Arthur sighs, and the image of the little girl he treated the other day pops into his mind. "It's too much of a responsibility…I didn't even have a proper father figure in my own life…Why not leave parenting to individuals who won't irreparably damage their children like I undoubtedly will?"

Francis chuckles and shakes his head at him. "You wouldn't damage them. Arthur, if I didn't think you would make a good father, I wouldn't have made this an issue. However scary it may seem to you now, I think that if you spend the rest of your life merely living inside of that hospital, you're going to end up miserable in the long run. Don't you think there should be something _more_ to your life? I know I don't want my life to come to a stagnant halt here. Aside from my job, I want a life that's full of love for those I care about, which is why I'm sitting at this table right now with you. I love you, Arthur, and I want you to stop being terrified of accepting that love—of thinking you aren't worthy of it or that you can't return it. I'm not asking you to say you want a child—that's not a decision you can make right away. I'm asking you to consider it seriously before you cast the idea aside."

"That's a lot to ask of me," Arthur mutters.

"I know."

Francis leans across the table, puts a gentle hand on his right cheek, and kisses him.

Arthur takes in the lush scent of his cologne, presses their foreheads together, and despairingly kisses him back because Francis is right and he's in denial. He _does_ want something more out of his life as well, otherwise, he wouldn't have married the frog. He's just not sure how feasible that dream is, considering his career. He might actually _like_ having a child if he could trust himself with one.

When they both part, Arthur sinks back into his chair and mumbles, "Since we're on the topic of the future…I know I've mentioned this before, but I'd like to open my own private practice. That way, I could dictate my own hours, and I'd only be at the hospital occasionally. It would give me more time, and hopefully, it'd be less demanding."

"I think that's a great idea," Francis says, immediately on board.

"Okay."

"Okay," Francis agrees, smiling.

"Boy or girl?"

"Huh?"

"If we were to have a child, and that's still an _if_ , would you want a boy or a girl?" Arthur asks, genuinely curious.

Francis shrugs his shoulders. "It doesn't matter to me."

"But let's say you had to choose."

"Okay, I'll tell you my preference if you tell me yours. Let's say it at the same time on the count of three," Francis decides, smile growing. "One, two, three."

"Boy," they both say in unison.

* * *

And so, a year later, when they go through the adoption process and have to decide on which child to take home, they fully expect to be the proud parents of a baby boy. All of those plans, however, go flying out the window when they are introduced to two twin girls, both four months old and the most beautiful things Francis and Arthur have ever seen.

"Meet Amelia and Madeline," the social worker says, handing Madeline to Francis and Amelia to Arthur.

Francis picks the child up with ease, cuddling her immediately and taking to her like a fish does to water. He's absolutely enamored by the bright blue saucers blinking back at him, and he brushes a loving hand over her small tufts of blonde hair, immediately going into father-mode.

Arthur has held a few babies in his lifetime, mostly for work-related purposes. He spent a few weeks on a maternity/mother-baby unit back in the day as part of some clinical rotations, but that's about as far as his experience with infants goes. He thought they would be adopting a child that would at least be old enough to be considered a toddler. Apparently, not. He has spent the last year reading about two-year-olds for no reason, it would seem. Honestly, can't they at least get a toilet-trained child?

Amelia has already reached the developmental milestone of being able to babble, and when Arthur inexpertly balances her in his arms, she chatters nonsense at him and splits her mouth open into a toothless grin. She grabs at his shirt, undoubtedly famished and looking for breastmilk, except Arthur, unfortunately, isn't going to be of any use in that department.

"You're going to be a handful, aren't you?" Arthur asks the baby, already sensing that she's an energetic, adventurous child.

He takes one look at Francis and knows there's no turning back now.

 _Twins!_

Dear God! And here he was worried about having to raise a single child. Now, he has two to look after—and girls, nonetheless!

Amelia makes a giggling noise, wriggles in his arms, and exclaims, "Gaaaaah!"

Well, that settles it, then.

He's going to be a father.

 _Oh, Lord._


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note** : Thanks so much for the feedback and support everyone! (Also, just to quickly clarify, _How to Fall in Love With a Frenchman_ was initially intended to be a sort of prequel to _Girlhood_ , which is why I have female America and Canada in this fic. It takes place within the same universe.)

After net neutrality was repealed yesterday, I really needed to write some fluff to cope. Here's the result. Enjoy and remember to leave a review!

* * *

 _Okay, Arthur, you can do this. Just take a deep breath...  
_  
He is tempted to throw his hands up in the air and give up as he tries to soothe an inconsolable Amelia while she screeches and howls at him. He's already doing everything wrong, and it's only the twins' first night home. Her cherub cheeks are tinged scarlet and slick with tears, and all Arthur can do is stare at her dumbly and wonder if there's some kind of medication out there specifically designed to get a child to stop shrieking at him like this.

In preparation for this fateful day, he and Francis have transformed the guest bedrooms into separate nurseries—one for Amelia and one for Madeline. At first, they had intended to keep the girls together in the same room but decided against it once they were informed by one of the social workers they've been in near constant contact with that Amelia suffers from infantile colic, which essentially means she cries at regular intervals to the point where she gives herself abdominal pain. It's a common thing in children of her age. It's not harmful, and she's going to grow out of it—hopefully sooner rather than later.

But her frequent crying spells mean she's going to be waking Madeline throughout the night, so they decide it's best if each baby has their own room, at least for now.

The crying starts around six in the evening and persists for almost four hours. Arthur and Francis put Madeline down for her nap and then take turns sitting in the nursery with Amelia, trying their best to make her comfortable. Arthur had the foresight to read up on possible remedies for colic, and so, he and Francis do everything from swaddling her in a blanket, putting a pacifier in her mouth (which she promptly decides to spit out), and placing a warm bottle on her belly. None of it works for very long. She just lies in her crib and sobs, face still cherry red.

As they both continue to lose hope, Madeline's baby monitor flashes as she begins to whimper from her room down the hall. Francis goes off to tend to her while Arthur remains by Amelia's side. If he were a better father, he might have gotten her to quiet down long enough to take a nap, but, alas, he's a mediocre father that's hardly adept at holding her let alone comforting her. _Father_ is a generous title—one he hasn't earned yet.

 _Pick her up,_ a voice in the back of his mind tells him. _Stop being afraid you're going to hurt her and hold her, you dolt_.

Hesitantly, he scoops Amelia out of her crib and sits down in the nearby rocking chair with her. He rests her tiny body against his chest and rubs her back helplessly. Every one of her sobs feels like someone is driving a knife farther and farther into his heart. How do parents do this?

"Shh, shhh," he begs her, rocking her back and forth a little—at least, that's what he thinks one is supposed to do in a situation like this. Somehow, he can't help but wonder if he's just hurting her even more. He's not cut out for this, clearly. "It's okay…Please, don't cry."

He's not sure if the child tires herself out or if his ministrations actually help, but regardless, she settles down about twenty minutes later, cries become softer and softer and as he continues rubbing her back. At long last, she falls asleep, eyes fluttering peacefully shut, and Arthur is left to appreciate the beautiful silence and the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathes.

Soon after, he finds himself drifting off as well, just as tired if not more so.

And he's too deep in sleep to notice Francis hovering by the doorway several minutes later with a smile dancing across his lips.

* * *

There are some things medical school did not prepare him for. Changing a diaper is one such example.

Infuriatingly enough, Arthur discovers that, apparently, Francis was a babysitter for a good portion of his young adult life, and thus, has changed dozens if not hundreds of nappies. And well, Arthur can't stand the thought of his husband being more capable of doing something than he is. Frankly, his ego is on the line now, so when he finds that Madeline is in need of a changing, he takes the baby into his arms, goes up to her nursey, lays her on the changing table, and assures Francis and himself that he knows exactly what to do even though he's clueless.

He approaches Madeline like he would approach a patient and puts on a pair of gloves. Then, he undoes the sticky flaps of the diaper in question, hands trembling.

Madeline, meanwhile, squirms and kicks her feet out, fussy and unhappy with the ordeal.

"Stop. I'm trying to help you," Arthur futilely explains, holding her legs with one hand and lifting her up slightly so he can take away the soiled diaper and slide a new one underneath her. He grabs the box of wipes from the other end of the changing table, makes sure Madeline is clean, and then debates what to do next. Is that it? Did he skip a step? Which way are the tapes on the sides supposed to go again? He makes an attempt to secure the diaper around her, realizes something isn't right, and undoes the tapes again, annoyed with himself. Why does this have to be so complicated? Children should come with an operation manual of some sort.

"Arthur, _mon amour_ , what are you doing?" Francis asks, coming into the room and scaring the living daylights out of him.

"Changing a nappy, obviously."

"Then, why on God's green earth are you wearing gloves? She's your daughter! And you're going to give her a rash if you don't use some cornstarch," the man chides him, stepping forward and taking control. He grabs some baby powder and carefully applies some to Madeline's lower belly, between her thighs, and onto her bottom. It must tickle, because Madeline giggles, and Francis deftly finishes putting the diaper on before lifting her into the air, blowing a raspberry onto her tummy, and finally setting her down in her crib again.

"I hate you," Arthur says, back hunched and pride wounded.

Francis laughs at him and pecks his nose with a kiss. "Keep practicing. You'll get better at it—and stop trying to doctor them, for goodness sake. They're not patients—they're your children."

Arthur tries, he really does, but it's not easy, especially when he's functioning on very little sleep because Amelia keeps them up for most of the night. To make matters worse, he's only allowed six weeks of adoption leave from work.

And so, after just six weeks of fatherhood, he is forced to go back to the hospital and must somehow balance his hectic schedule with child-rearing.

Francis stays home with the girls, setting his job at the restaurant on hold. This leaves Arthur as the sole breadwinner of the house, which puts even more pressure on him than he's used to.

And in the midst of this, he also attempts to work out the logistics of his private practice, which he's still in the process of opening.

Thus, both he and Francis end up more exhausted and stressed than they've ever been in their entire lives.

So when Arthur comes home late from work one night, he's not surprised that he and Francis snap at each other and finally get into a long overdue argument. Somehow, a discussion about how the girls need to go their pediatrician to get some vaccinations since they're about to turn six months old devolves into a fight about how Francis doesn't feel like Arthur is doing his fair share of work in raising the twins. Arthur asserts that someone needs to pay the bills, and it's not like he's relaxing and doing absolutely nothing while he's at work for so many hours. He's tired, too, and he's beginning to feel like he's becoming Francis's personal punching bag.

They start to sound like an old married couple. This is the ugly side of marriage. It's what happens after one has children.

Their arguing wakes Amelia, and Arthur offers to go and check on her, but Francis snarls and says he's done enough already before storming away and handling it himself.

Wearily, Arthur washes the dishes in the sink and sorts through the laundry, feeling the need to do something lest Francis decides to yell at him some more for being useless. Once that's taken care of, he goes up to their shared bedroom and sulks.

To his surprise, Francis comes in and apologizes.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to shout and take my anger out on you. Being with the girls all day while you're gone can feel overwhelming," he says.

"I'm sorry as well. I should have been more sympathetic," Arthur whispers, not wanting to risk waking the children again. "Even though I can't always be here, I want you to know we're a team…And I'll do all I can to try and be home more often."

" _Oui_ , a team," Francis agrees, embracing him. "I'm sorry. I was the one who wanted us to have children in the first place, and now I'm the one complaining the most."

Arthur chuckles. "It's okay. We knew this wasn't going to be easy, but if I didn't want things to be this way, I wouldn't have agreed to it. You didn't coerce me into adopting the girls, you know. Get some sleep. I'm off tomorrow, so I'll be around to help."

" _Merci, mon coeur_. I love you."

"You're sure about that?"

"The correct response is, 'Oh, Francis, I love you, too, and I am filled with raging passion for your good looks and allure.'"

Arthur rolls his eyes and turns out the light to hide his small smile. "Idiot…I love you, too. Now, sleep."

* * *

Around the time they start weaning the girls off of formula and onto more solid foods like mashed vegetables and fruits, Arthur finally manages to open his own office, which means he's now almost always home for dinner, and he has two to three days off per week to spend with the girls, shouldering a good chunk of the responsibility that was previously bogging Francis down. In fact, their improved schedules mean that Francis can now return to the restaurant on the days Arthur is home.

Of course, Arthur can tell Francis is happier once he's able to cook again. The glow returns to his face and eyes. It's good that his entire life no longer revolves completely around the girls and that he can have a number of hours to do other things. Some occasional distance is necessary.

Likewise, Arthur is happier now that he can spend more time with the twins. He has the luxury of being able to take the girls to the park or out for groceries. He can play with them, give them their baths, and most importantly, have some quality father-daughter time to bond with them.

One morning, while he's feeding Amelia and Madeline some mushy peas, Amelia tries to slither out of her high-chair and shouts, "Da!"

Which is close enough to "Dad" for Arthur to feel touched as he pries her mouth open and tries to get her to swallow another spoonful of peas. Of course, she spits most of it back out, staining her pink bib.

"Must you make this so difficult?" he asks her gruffly. "If you don't eat, we'll send you to the hospital for a feeding tube."

Why is he threatening an infant? What has his life become?

"Open," he orders, poking the spoon into her mouth again.

Begrudgingly, Amelia swallows the food this time but quickly bursts into tears as a result.

"Oh, come now. It's not that awful. You're being dramatic. Those crocodile tears won't work on me. I know better," he scolds her lightly, wiping her face with a damp washcloth. "Honestly…Such a fussy eater when it comes to vegetables, but the moment I give you something sweet, you devour it…Madeline, how about you? Fancy some more peas?"

This is nice—just sitting here and talking to the girls. He doesn't even mind that Amelia is being a pain in the neck again.

He tries giving Madeline the mush, and she tucks into it with a bit more enthusiasm.

"See? Isn't that nourishing and delicious? Tell your sister she's being a brat. Soon, you'll both be eating all sorts of foods."

Madeline bites at her bib—a sign she's beginning to teethe. Her gums are itching, and so, once Arthur decides he's gotten enough food into both of the girls, he gives them the teething rings Francis bought several days ago when they noticed the twins' teeth beginning to erupt.

Madeline happily chews on the ring, but Amelia, choosing to be difficult yet again, bangs the teething ring against her high-chair and shrieks.

"Da! Da!" she cries.

"Yes, yes. I'm right here," he promises, ridding Amelia of her pea-covered bib before pressing a small kiss to her forehead. It's incredible how quickly he's gone from being self-conscious around the girls to being Mr. Mom. He barely recognizes himself anymore. He's a completely different person from who he was just two months ago, and he didn't think such a drastic transformation could be possible.

A few weeks after the pea fiasco, the girls get into the habit of calling Arthur "Dada" and Francis "Papa," and it's hard to believe they're already beginning to talk.

Francis gets all of their words and babbling on video and sends it to everyone he knows, immensely proud.

And in the blink of an eye, the girls officially turn a year old. Francis insists on throwing a birthday party for them—balloons, party hats, cake, and all. They invite some of the "mommy friends" they've both made while taking the girls to the playground, and as a result, on a blistering hot day in July, children and their parents from all over the neighborhood stop by to celebrate.

Arthur discovers that children still give him migraines—other people's children, that is. He only likes his girls, and this becomes especially clear to him when little Mathias from down the block starts running around the house and nearly knocks over a vase.

Maybe it's a good thing they didn't adopt a boy after all.

* * *

There are some things one expects with parenthood. Those things include but are not limited to: sleep deprivation, frequent anxiety every time something potentially dangerous gets in the hands of one of the babies, feeling an inkling of loathing toward one's partner after a hard day, neglecting one's own needs in order to fulfill those of the children, and the acknowledgment that one no longer has a social life.

What Arthur doesn't expect is that he will be on the receiving end of text messages from Francis in the middle of his workday that read:

" _Madeline just went to the toilet by herself for the very first time!_ "

" _Do you know where we put the humidifier?"_

" _We should get the girls ready for preschool entrance exams. It's never too soon to start investing in our children's education."_

When Amelia and Madeline start walking properly, are fully potty-trained, and begin to string together sentences at the age of two, Francis is overjoyed. Arthur, on the other hand, isn't quite as mesmerized and excited. While he appreciates now having the ability to communicate more fully with the girls, he knows this is going to be nothing but trouble in the long run. They're called the "terrible twos" for a reason, and he isn't looking forward to the backtalk, the tantrums, and the general disobedience he expects from the children from this point onward.

Unsurprisingly, Amelia turns out to be a master at the art of the tantrum. She can walk into a supermarket and throw a fit that's so horrific that nearly every passerby will think Arthur or Francis is doing something dreadful to her. She can scream, kick, cry, holler, and threaten to hold her breath until she dies (but Arthur assures Francis that this is physically impossible for her to do, so neither of them worry too much when it happens).

Madeline has a handful of tantrums as well. They're infrequent, but they often have something to do with Amelia. For example, last week, Amelia earned herself a cookie for finally making an effort at eating her vegetables, and Madeline insisted on getting a cookie as well—crying and shouting until Francis assured her she wouldn't be getting any treats if she kept up her bad behavior.

But there are precious moments, too. Like one afternoon when Amelia shouts at Arthur, "Wook, Daddy, wook!" and presents him with a drawing, shoving it into his hands and waiting for his hum of approval.

"Ahh, and what's this? Who are these people in the drawing? Is that a headless chicken in the middle?"

Amelia crosses her arms over her chest and lets out an adorable huff of indignation, obviously annoyed at always having to explain everything to her unenlightened father. "Me and Maddie in da kitchen!"

"Maddie and me," Arthur corrects, but he knows it's no use. He finds himself trying to fix Amelia's bad grammar at least two dozen times a day, and he's not sure she's listening. "Mmm, but I see it now—the headless chicken is the kitchen table, isn't it?"

"Wike it?"

"Do I like it?" Arthur chimes back, hoping she'll eventually start mimicking his complete sentences. "Of course, I like it. I love it. Thank you!"

Amelia's face splits into a brilliant smile, and Arthur can't help but pull her into a hug and place a kiss on her head. She squirms at the smothering and scampers off a moment later, enamored by something more important that has caught her attention.

"No running in the house!" he reminds with a little sigh, but, as usual, he's disregarded.

He has a sneaking suspicion Amelia knows she has him wrapped around her finger.

* * *

They don't get their first real test as parents until the girls are about two-and-a-half.

The February evening starts out innocently enough. It's a week before Arthur and Francis's anniversary, and they're both sitting in the kitchen, enjoying a cup of tea together. Francis chats about this and that, and Arthur tries to follow along even though his eyes are drooping and his brain is devoid of all feeling and awareness.

"Remind me to do some shopping soon. The girls are outgrowing everything again. Did you happen to sort through those storage bins in their closets like I asked you to?"

Arthur pulls himself out of his sleepy stupor and mumbles, "I didn't get the chance, but I'll do it first thing in the morning."

"Don't forget."

"I won't."

"Are you all right?"

"Fine. Tired, as usual," Arthur says with a large yawn, and, as if hearing him and wanting to mock him, the house erupts with the noise of wailing as one of the girls begins to cry—Amelia, from the sound of it.

The twins are supposed to be asleep for the night, and after struggling to get the two of them into their pajamas for an hour, Francis thought they would have been spared any more drama for the time being. He thought wrong.

"I'll get it," Arthur assures, lugging himself out of his chair and up the stairs, already mentally preparing himself to soothe Amelia after what might have been a nightmare, as she's notorious for having frightening dreams.

Unfortunately, he realizes the situation is a bit more complicated when he walks through the doorway to her bedroom and finds her covered in her own vomit. Wonderful. It's a good thing he's desensitized to these sorts of messy situations. He has dealt with _far_ worse in the emergency room.

He reaches Amelia's bedside—the girls outgrew their cribs a few months ago and were upgraded to proper beds—and smooths her blonde hair away from her face. He lets his hand pause on her forehead and then feels each of her cheeks as well. She's running a fever.

"It's all right, love. You're under the weather, is all," he says calmingly before helping her out of bed and steering her into the bathroom, where he helps her out of the pajamas Francis worked so hard to dress her in. He sets them aside so they can be washed.

Then, he runs a tepid bath and scrubs Amelia clean with a generous amount of soap. She cries softly the entire time, sniffling miserably and whimpering about how her tummy and head hurt, but Arthur sings the first song that comes to mind under his breath while he works, letting the delicate, happy tune lull her.

" _Isn't she lovely?  
Isn't she wonderful?_

 _Isn't she precious?  
Less than three-years-old."_

He modifies Stevie Wonder's lyrics just a little, and Amelia's pitiful whimpers begin to fade.

" _Isn't she pretty?  
_ _Truly the angel's best…"_

For the first time, he feels like he has finally tapped into that paternal instinct he's been lacking thus far. Perhaps it's because he's finally in his element—dealing with illness is his specialty after all—but he has nursed the girls through colds and ear infections before, and even then, he did not feel nearly this calm and in control. He's _almost_ willing to call himself a real father.

"All right, love. All clean," he tells Amelia, shooting her a smile before placing a tender kiss on her hot forehead. He lifts her out of the tub, wraps her in a large towel, and briskly rubs her dry. Then, he gets a fresh pair of pajamas from the dresser in her room and helps her change because he has made the mistake of letting Amelia dress herself one too many times, and he doesn't plan on making that very same mistake tonight.

"Feel yuck," Amelia whispers, sticking her thumb in her mouth as she continues to cry. She holds her arms out to Arthur, wanting to be picked up and carried back to bed.

Arthur obliges this one time, reasoning that it's all right to spoil her while she's unwell. He props her on his hip, and she leans her head on his shoulder, shaking from the force of more sobs.

"Shhh, now," he croons before running into a worried Francis in the hallway.

"Is everything okay?"

"Amelia's feeling ill. She vomited."

Francis clicks his tongue and presses a kiss of his own to her head to confirm the verdict for himself. " _Oui_ , she's very warm. I hope it's nothing serious."

"I'll examine her in a moment," Arthur assures before heading back to Amelia's room with Francis now in tow. "Would you mind changing the sheets while I take her temperature?"

"You don't even have to ask."

Arthur nods gratefully and seats Amelia in the all-too-familiar rocking chair they have kept in her room over the past two years. Oh, how many times he has fallen asleep in this very same chair with a baby Amelia in his lap…It's terrifying to think about how much she has grown since then.

"I'll be back in just a moment," he promises before leaving her side to grab his bag of medical wonders from the master bedroom.

He's going to have to be crafty. Amelia is infamous for screaming as soon as she's within a ten-block radius of the pediatrician's office, and so, examining her isn't going to be easy. From the few times he has taken the girls to get their vaccinations and check-ups, he has seen how it often takes a great deal of bribery, patience, and tenacity to get Amelia to behave at the doctor's.

He'll just have to take things one step at a time and hope for the best. When he returns to her bedroom, he pulls out a temporal artery thermometer, and though Amelia isn't too fond of the idea of having her temperature taken, she lets him hold the thermometer against her forehead just long enough for a reading to register—103.1.

That's high. Worryingly high, especially considering she just had a cool bath. It's higher than any fever she's had in the past.

She then murmurs in the most pitiful voice Arthur has ever heard, "Hurts."

Actually, it's more along the lines of "huwwts," as she's still having trouble pronouncing her r's. Fortunately, he and Francis have become quite proficient in making sense of toddler-talk.

"You'll be all better soon, my dear."

As soon as Francis is done changing the sheets, Arthur disinfects the thermometer, gets Amelia back into bed, and gives Francis orders to go and check on Madeline to see if she's ill as well.

While he waits for his husband's return, Arthur steels himself for the imminent battle before him. He fluffs Amelia's pillow, makes certain she's comfortable, and then goes about unbuttoning the top two buttons of her onesie so he can examine her better. However, the moment he brings out his stethoscope and puts the buds in his ears, Amelia slams her eyes shut and screams as loudly as she dares, making him jump.

"Shhh! Stop that. Don't cry," he tells her firmly, drying some of her tears with his thumb. "If  
you don't let me examine you, Amelia, then I won't be able to know what's making you ill. I won't be able to help make it better by giving you the right medicine."

"No med-sin!" Amelia sobs wretchedly, and Arthur lets out a despondent sigh.

He shouldn't have mentioned the dreaded "M" word. That was an amateur slip-up.

"Okay, okay. No medicine for now, but you need to let me finish examining you," Arthur insists, trying to get his stethoscope over the girl's heart as she wriggles and struggles to back away.

She then employs a more violent tactic by curling her fingers around the tubing of the stethoscope and yanking down on it, hard. The result is that Arthur's head gets jerked downward and the buds fall out of his ears, landing on the bed with a soft thunk.

"Amelia!" he scolds her, raising his voice impressively.

She wails some more for good measure and scrunches her face up, intent on defying him.

He doesn't want to yell or punish her, not when she's rundown like this, but his patience is wearing very thin. He's emotionally spent, and he can't believe the child still has enough energy to keep causing such a racket.

He slumps his shoulders and broods, watching Amelia throw the rest of her tantrum as he tries to brainstorm solutions. He lets his eyes rove around the room, and that's when he notices a stuffed animal sitting on the dresser. But it's not just any old stuffed animal, it's Amelia's favorite toy—a bunny she creatively named "Bun-Bun" when she was nine months old.

He grabs the bunny, sits on the edge of Amelia's bed, and says, "Look, Amelia, we're going to examine Bun-Bun."

She falls silent, stares at Arthur with intrigued eyes that are bloodshot from crying, and asks, "Bun-Bun's sick?"

"Hmm, let's see," Arthur murmurs, mentally dusting off his rusty imagination. He sits the bunny in his lap and holds a hand to its forehead, pretending to check for fever. "Yes, I think he's running a fever as well."

Amelia looks concerned and sits up a little, face flushed. "Make Bun-Bun better."

Arthur fastens a serious expression to his face and brings out his stethoscope again, placing the diaphragm of it against the bunny's fuzzy underbelly. "His heart and lungs sound fine."

"Lemme!" Amelia exclaims, and Arthur knows this means she wants to have a go at listening to Bun-Bun's non-existent organs as well.

And so, he helps Amelia put the buds of the stethoscope in her ears and lets her play around with it, letting her see it's safe and harmless. Once she's done experimenting on the bunny, she experiments on Arthur, prodding his chest with it.

"Your turn," Arthur says once he has waited long enough. He takes his stethoscope back and is finally able to listen to Amelia's heart and lungs without a hitch. Her lungs are clear, and her heart sounds as it should—free from any trills or murmurs. Her heartrate is a little elevated from the fever, but that's all right.

He's setting his stethoscope aside when Francis comes in through the door again with some good news—Madeline's temperature is normal at the moment, and she isn't showing any signs of illness.

"That's a relief," Arthur sighs, feeling a little more optimistic now that he knows he has only one ill daughter to tend to. "We'll have to take her temperature again in a few hours to make sure she's all right…Okay, Amelia, let's check Bun-Bun's ears next."

He takes out his otoscope and checks the bunny's floppy ears, continuing their little game. After a couple of seconds, he murmurs warmly, "Just like a bunny's ears should look."

Then, he looks into Amelia's ears, and although she squirms a little, she doesn't protest.

"No signs of infection," he says before tickling behind her left ear and wrangling a giggle out of her.

He can feel Francis's grin on his back, but he stays focused and keeps working, not allowing himself to get distracted or to feel ridiculous for the antics he has resorted to. This is serious business, and he's strictly doing this for the child's wellbeing!

"Now say ahh," he says, directing the otoscope at Amelia's mouth.

She shakes her head and pouts. "Bun-Bun first."

Arthur sighs but obligingly pretends to look into the bunny's mouth before Amelia lets him look into hers. Her throat looks fine—no signs of strep, pharyngitis, tonsillitis, or any other viral or bacterial infection. This is starting to look like the stomach flu.

"All right, let's see Bun-Bun's belly now."

He presses around where the bunny's stomach would theoretically be if he had one, and Francis chuckles softly, increasingly amused by all of this as he continues to observe from behind.

"Just as I suspected, Bun-Bun has an upset stomach," Arthur diagnoses before he tugs Amelia's onesie down a little more so he can have access to her stomach, too. He checks for any tenderness or pain, and she does seem to be a little bloated. When he presses his stethoscope to the four quadrants of her abdomen, it's hard to miss the cacophony of rumbles that greets his ears. He's certain this is a stomach bug now, which means he can brace himself for a sleepless night, since Amelia's likely going to need to be supervised around the clock until this passes.

"Huwwts," Amelia dejectedly repeats again as Arthur buttons her onesie up again and brushes her hair away from her face.

"I know, love, but we're going to fix it, all right?"

The true test will be to get her to swallow a dose of a fever reducer. He measures out a teaspoon of children's ibuprofen, sits on the edge of the bed again, and tries to bring the medicine to her mouth, but she glares at the spoon as though it's going to bite her.

 _Patience,_ Arthur silently reminds himself.

"Okay, Amelia, I need to give you and Bun-Bun your medicine now so you can both feel better."

"No med-sin!"

"Yes medicine," he glumly jokes.

"No!"

"But love, if you don't take your medicine, how are you going to get better? You don't want to stay ill and in bed, do you?" he asks her gently. "Bun-Bun's being an excellent patient. Look, he's going to take all of his medicine."

He pretends to tip the spoon into the bunny's mouth and says, "See, what a good lad he is? He's going to be healthy now…It's a shame Amelia won't take her medicine…"

Amelia frowns and chews on her bottom lip. "No med-sin."

"No one wants to take their medicine. I know many adults who don't take their medicine and continue to grow more and more ill as a result. Some of them have to stay in bed forever."

"Fowever?"

"I'm afraid so."

And just like that, as though by magical force, Amelia lets her mouth fall open, and Arthur quickly slips the spoon between her lips. She makes a face and a noise of displeasure, but Francis brings her a sippy cup filled with apple juice, and she washes the bitter taste away.

"So what now?" Francis asks.

"We monitor her and see what happens. If it's what I suspect it is, she'll be horrendously ill for the next day or two until her immune system fights the virus off."

Francis sighs and says, "I'll set up an alarm to wake us every hour so we can check on her."

Arthur purses his lips and shakes his head. "That's all right. I think I'm going to sleep in here tonight."

"You're a mother hen, and I mean that in only the best way, of course," Francis teases him, planting a light kiss on his cheek. "Well, at least she has an excellent doctor looking after her. A doctor who, apparently, also specializes in bunnies."

Arthur smirks. "Didn't you know that I'm also a part-time veterinarian?"

Before Francis can fire back another remark to continue the banter, Amelia turns pale and starts whimpering again. Recognizing the look on her face, Arthur grabs the small garbage bin from the corner of the room and brings it up to her chin as she vomits once more, rendering the ibuprofen he just gave her absolutely useless.

What ensues after that is a night of pure torture. Amelia rouses from sleep at least once every forty minutes to be sick, and each time, Arthur is there, combing her hair back and whispering sweet nothings to her. He tries to get her to drink some electrolyte-enhanced water, but she fails to keep that down, too.

To make matters worse, when he takes Amelia's temperature at six o'clock in the morning, he discovers her fever has spiked to an alarming 104.5. He seriously debates whether he should take her to the emergency room, and for a good while, he lies next to her in her bed and worriedly presses cold compresses to her forehead, neck, lower back.

When another hour passes with no sign of improvement, he sweeps into the master bedroom, shakes Francis awake, and says, "I think Amelia needs to be taken to the hospital."

Francis rubs at his eyes and frowns. "You're sure you're not overreacting?"

"Her fever isn't breaking, and she's dehydrated."

"Okay, I believe you," Francis says with a nod, sitting up and jumping into action. He makes quick work of finding a babysitter for Madeline as soon as the clock strikes seven o'clock, and once the sitter arrives, he tells Madeline to be a good girl while they're gone before helping Arthur carry Amelia into the car.

And she must be truly ill if she doesn't even let out a shout of defiance when they walk through the entrance of the ER. She just loops her arms around Arthur's neck and weeps into his now tear-soaked winter coat while he sits down with her in one of the chairs in the waiting area. He tells Francis what to write on the forms they're told to fill out regarding Amelia's patient information and medical history, and soon after, Amelia is let onto the unit and lies on a stretcher, head lolled to one side in exhaustion while Arthur and Francis sit beside her in a pair of small plastic chairs, taking turns at holding her hand.

"I haven't been here since we met," Francis reminisces.

"Be thankful that's been the case up until now."

The pediatrician comes in, and Arthur waits for Amelia to scream, but she doesn't. She's as frighteningly subdued and listless as she's been since they left the house, worrying both Francis and Arthur to no end.

"I didn't know you had children, Arthur," the pediatrician says, recognizing him from when he used to be in this darned ER almost every day. "New parent, huh?"

"Yes, against all odds," Arthur tries to joke, but it falls flat. All he can think about is how awful Amelia looks and how she's not throwing a fit at being in the hospital. He never thought he'd actually _miss_ her tantrums. "She's never been this ill before."

"There's a bug going around. Every child goes through something like this at some point. Don't worry."

Arthur nods his head, but he doesn't feel reassured, not even when Francis puts a hand on his shoulder. "I'm never letting her step foot on a playground ever again."

The pediatrician laughs and smiles sympathetically at them while he puts his stethoscope on Amelia's chest. She doesn't even peek an eye open at the disturbance. "My son contracted croup when he was in kindergarten and had to be hospitalized for it. I nearly decided to have him homeschooled after that," he recalls before patting Amelia's leg comfortingly. "I'll tell you what you already know but need to hear anyway—she's going to be fine with fluids and rest."

The pediatrician leaves after that, and a nurse comes in to put Amelia's IV in. Arthur expects that he and Francis are going to have to hold her still or beg her not to cry, but again, she's too tired and dazed to care. She whimpers a little, but that's it.

And while Arthur knows the pediatrician is right and everything's going to be okay, he still can't help but pace around the room and keep reaching over to feel Amelia's forehead every fifteen minutes or so.

"Arthur, you're making me anxious," Francis says.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Just sit."

"I'm glad at least one of us isn't panicking."

"Of course I'm panicking, but I'm doing my best to conceal it," Francis admits with a short laugh and a wan smile. "We can't both be pacing around—there isn't enough space."

Thankfully, Amelia's fever finally begins to break after another two hours, and she regains some healthy color to her cheeks. She's asleep throughout the rest of the morning, which is understandable considering she was up all night, but around midday, she opens her eyes and feels well enough to interact with Arthur and Francis for a bit.

"There's our brave and beautiful _lapin_ ," Francis whispers, flooded with relief. "Are you feeling better, _ma cherie_?"

Amelia lets out a low moan and her breath hitches—a signal she's getting ready to cry yet again.

"Shh, love," Arthur immediately eases her, squeezing her hand and tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. "It's okay. You're in the hospital, remember? You've been very ill, but you're going to feel much better soon."

His soft reassurances do little to stem the waterfall of tears, and when the pediatrician comes in again, she shrieks as she normally does, and that's how Arthur knows she's well on the road to recovery. For the first time, he welcomes the horrific noise.

"I think she's ready to be discharged," he tells the pediatrician with a strained, worn out smile.

"Ahh, acting like herself again…Hello, Amelia! Are we feeling better?"

Amelia bawls in response and tries to pick at her IV, but Arthur stops her mischievous fingers from doing any damage.

"No med-sin!" Amelia howls.

Arthur can't help but grin. He's incredibly relieved. He can feel his own eyes sting with tears, but he suppresses them with all his might. Since when did he become so sensitive? He hasn't cried in years.

Francis pulls him into a hug, and he accepts the loving embrace. They're a team. They're in this together. It's going to be all right. Amelia's going to be okay. They've survived their first health-related crisis regarding one of the girls. Everything from this point on will pale in comparison, surely.

"A little more medicine, honey, and then we'll let you go home," the pediatrician promises before turning to Francis and Arthur. "She should be out of here by tonight."

"No med-sin!"

Arthur traps Amelia in his arms, nuzzles his nose against hers until she laughs, and says, "Yes medicine."

It'll be all better by tomorrow.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** Hey, guys, so I know I update this fic pretty sporadically, and that's because I come back to it when I'm stressed and need to write extreme levels of fluff to cope. If you're sick of it, please let me know (I won't be offended, haha). But hopefully, you can enjoy something in here. What do you think is going to happen next?

* * *

 _ **~3 years later~**_

 _62-year-old female with a history of respiratory distress. Smoker. Last PFT suggests early signs of COPD. Prescribed Flovent, 88 micrograms, 2 puffs, twice daily._

"It's worst in the morning and in the middle of the night," the woman explains, fiddling with the large purse in her lap. "You know, I took my grandson to the park the other day and couldn't stop coughing. I think it's something in the air."

Arthur puts down the chart in his hands and frowns. "Mrs. Brown, have you stopped smoking?"

"Well…No, but I really don't think it's the cigarettes that are the problem. I read online that there are plenty of environmental factors that can cause breathing troubles."

"We've discussed this previously, but I'm afraid your condition is only going to worsen if—"

"Doctor, there are people who live to be over a hundred and have smoked a pack of cigarettes a day since they were eighteen."

Arthur sighs. He can see his patient still hasn't come to terms with the reality of her situation just yet. Trying to reason with her is bound to be futile. "Have you been taking the medication I prescribed you?"

"I tried it for a week, and I didn't think it was doing me any good, so I stopped taking it."

"Sometimes, it can take a while for the medication to start working, which is why it needs to be taken consistently and over a longer period of time," Arthur explains, taking great care not to sound patronizing or condescending. "Would you be willing to give it another try? Or, I can prescribe something else if you'd prefer."

"I don't want to take anything. I really don't think it's necessary."

"But you said yourself that you're having trouble breathing and that it's impeding your daily life. Quitting or—at the very least—cutting down on your smoking in combination with medication are the only effective and sustainable treatments."

Mrs. Brown glowers from behind her thick reading glasses and says, "I don't like putting chemicals in my body."

Arthur hunches his shoulders and manages a weary smile. This isn't the first patient he's had who has been adamantly against taking medication for treatment. He can't understand why on Earth someone would refuse the one thing capable of helping them. It'd be different if he were asking her to take something that might have serious, life-threatening side effects—but all this fuss over an inhaler?

"One could say that water is a chemical as well," he mutters quietly before he can stop himself, but fortunately, it doesn't seem like Mrs. Brown heard him—she's too busy checking the time on her watch and looking as though she'd prefer to be anywhere else but here.

He places his stethoscope on her chest, and, sure enough, he can hear the restricted air flow in her lungs. When he finishes examining her, he writes a new prescription for a different corticosteroid, hands it to her, and says, "Should you change your mind, you can try this."

"I heard Himalayan salt lamps are good for one's breathing," Mrs. Brown notes, scowling down at the prescription. "It's more natural."

Pseudoscience—all of it. She's hoping for a quick fix or a magical cure, and that's not going to happen, but he can't tell her that, can he? He has to remain professional. If Mrs. Brown wants to believe she knows better than him, so be it.

"I'd like to see you again in six weeks, and I hope you'll give the medication a chance," he says in a last-ditch effort. Maybe she'll be persuaded eventually.

But Mrs. Brown almost seems _offended_ by his advice. She slings her purse over her shoulder, stuffs the prescription in her pocket, and walks out of the exam room without saying goodbye or thank-you.

He knows not to take any of this personally. He has done his job, and if a patient doesn't wish to follow his recommendations, that's fine. He can't force anyone to treat themselves. It's the patient's right to do as they please or to get a second opinion.

However, that doesn't mean the way she brushed him off doesn't sting. He only wished to help, but now he's left feeling like he's somehow done something wrong.

Sometimes, he wonders why he bothers caring in the first place.

* * *

Today was not his day.

And apparently, it's not his night either because when he steps through the front door, he's greeted by the sound of crying—hysterical crying for that matter.

Arthur takes off his coat and shoes, abandons his bag in the foyer, and advances upstairs to find out what's wrong now. Francis had the beginning of a head cold this morning, but that can't be the source of the trouble, unless he's bawling over some sniffles, which sounds too melodramatic even by Francis's standards. Besides, the crying sounds like it's coming from one of the girls and not his husband. Still, the thought is amusing.

He follows the noise, and it leads him to Amelia's room.

 _"It's okay."_

 _"Shh, shh, ma chérie."_

Francis and Madeline are both huddled around a rattled Amelia, taking turns at trying to soothe her to no avail while she weeps into her papa's shirt. It seems they've been at this for quite some time now.

Arthur takes a step closer and puts a hand on Francis's shoulder to alert him of his presence before asking, "What happened?"

Before Francis can turn around to face him, Amelia picks up a purple cage from off of her desk—the cage in which she keeps her pet hamster—and holds it out for Arthur to see, practically shoving it into his chest.

"Help," she begs, tears running down her cheeks and snot dripping from her nose. "Dorothy's sick. S-She won't eat her carrots or drink water, or r-run around in her wheel."

Arthur peers down at the furry beige-and-white Roborovski hamster lying on its side in the corner of the cage, and yes—it doesn't look well at all. Its breathing is labored, and it appears thinner than when he last saw it a few days ago.

"Do something!" Amelia shouts at him, gasping between heavy sobs. "Y-You can fix her, right?"

Oh, dear...The poor thing doesn't look like it's going to make it through the night...

"Love, I'm sorry, but I don't know anything about hamsters and—"

Amelia begins to cry even harder, which shouldn't be possible, and Arthur is fairly sure his heart breaks into two pieces. She's only six—she doesn't understand…

Madeline pulls her into a tight hug and tries to tell her not to be so upset, but no matter how snugly her sister holds her or how gently she pets her head, it doesn't help.

Francis turns to him with a deep frown and a pink-tinged nose from the cold he's been fighting. He stares at him as if to ask, "What now?" but Arthur doesn't know what to do either. All he knows is that he's now irreparably damaged by the pitiful look on Amelia's face.

"Perhaps we could take it to a vet?" Arthur suggests.

"At this time?" Francis asks.

"The animal hospital uptown should be open."

Francis shoots him a dubious look and turns his gaze back to their two six-year-olds. "Give your father and me a moment, _mes lapins_."

His husband drags him—hamster cage and all—across the hallway and into their bedroom, looking irritated and quite tired (Arthur is willing to bet he has a sinus headache).

"What do you think you're doing? You would really take a _hamster_ to an animal hospital? Have you lost your mind? We should just keep it in our room for the night and hope it survives, and if it doesn't, we'll tell Amelia the truth—that it passed away."

Arthur sets the hamster's cage down on their dresser and snarls, "If we tell her it's going to die, she'll be devastated."

"It's only a hamster," Francis says with a congested sniffle, "and are we really going to spend upwards of hundreds of dollars to save a rodent's life? If it were a cat or a dog, I'd reconsider, but what can be done for such a little thing?"

"A vet would be able to treat it. It doesn't matter how small it is. Francis, I don't think you understand just how much Amelia adores this animal. I think it'd be a good idea to at least find out what's wrong with it. Perhaps it's nothing serious, and it just needs some antibiotics."

"Amelia's old enough to understand that animals can die of old age."

"It's not dying of old age. It's ill."

Francis huffs and lets out a scratchy sneeze. "I'm not taking it to a vet. That's ridiculous."

"Fine, then tell her that."

"We'll both tell her."

"No, I'm not doing that to her. I'm volunteering to take it to the vet."

Francis rubs a hand over his eyes and groans. "You're impossible."

Arthur touches his husband's forehead and is relieved to find he's only slightly warm—a low- grade fever at most. "Did you take a decongestant?"

"It's spring allergies."

"Spring allergies, my arse."

"Language," Francis hisses, grabbing some tissues off of the nightstand in order to blow his nose. It doesn't seem to alleviate his misery because he still sounds nasally and unhappy afterward.

"What color?"

"Excuse me?"

Arthur rolls his eyes. "You know what I'm referring to—your mucus."

"Sometimes I don't think you realize that it's not normal to ask somebody what color their mucus is in everyday conversation," Francis says with a brief cough. "In fact, it's disgusting."

"Francis, we've been married for nearly ten years now. I think we're past the point of worrying about proper etiquette around one another," he scoffs as he takes a penlight out of his pocket, tilts Francis's head back, and examines the state of his nose. "As I already determined, it's not allergies. You, sir, have a sinus infection."

"I can't have a sinus infection. I'm going to the girls' school tomorrow for Career Day, and I already baked cookies for the class. I promised them I would go," Francis mutters, pulling away.

Arthur shakes his head. "You're not going anywhere. You're going to stay home and rest."

"Well, someone has to go to Career Day…"

He doesn't like that mischievous glint in Francis's eyes. "Stop that. I hope you're not thinking about coercing me into going in your place."

"That's exactly what I'm thinking about. Plus, you're not working tomorrow."

"I'm busy. I'm taking Amelia's hamster to a vet, and who knows when I'll be back?"

"Would you stop with that? Let it be."

Arthur ignores him and pokes a finger between the bars of the purple cage to gently pet the hamster's back. "Listen here, Dorothy. You are _not_ allowed to die, do you understand me? It would break my daughter's heart. You can die when we send her off to university and not a moment sooner.

The hamster scrunches up its little nose, and Francis laughs exasperatedly from behind Arthur.

"Now I remember why I fell in love with you…" Francis chuckles. "Fine, do what you want, crazy man."

Arthur picks up the cage, pats Francis's pale cheek affectionately, and orders, "Take a decongestant, please, and make yourself some tea. Tell Amelia I'm leaving and not to wait for my return. I'll likely be back long past her bedtime."

"Okay, _mon amour_. I will let her know her hamster is in capable hands. I'm sure she will be grateful."

"Don't give me so much credit. I may come back empty-handed."

* * *

He doesn't know why he does this to himself.

Here he is, sitting in an emergency animal clinic at ten o'clock at night with a neon purple hamster cage perched in his lap. He must be quite a peculiar sight, but if this is what it's going to take to make Amelia happy again, then he's willing to put up with any strange glances directed at him.

To make matters worse, every time someone walks in with a dog or cat, he must protect Dorothy by holding her cage up and out of harm's way. He didn't come all this way just to let her get eaten by a Dobermann!

As in any hospital, he gets a bunch of forms to fill out, and, admittedly, it's a little awkward when he has to write "Dorothy Bonnefoy-Kirkland" under "patient's name." He doesn't remember exactly how old she is, so he has to guess 14 months, and he has to hand over his credit card information upfront so they can charge him Lord only knows how much for a visit.

And he's only in this position because he couldn't explain to Amelia that her hamster's time on Earth might be coming to an end. The simpler (and cheaper) option would have been to have simply purchased her a new hamster.

But the longer he sits in this waiting room with Dorothy, the more horrible the thought of replacing her becomes. Truth be told, she's a cute little thing, and knowing Amelia, she'd be able to tell the difference if he brought home a new hamster. She's too clever. And well, he doesn't want to be _that_ father—the one who lies to his child and just makes things worse in the long run.

He spends an hour in the waiting room until he's finally called inside, and it dawns upon him that if he thought _his_ job was hard, being a veterinarian is a whole other type of hell. He can't imagine having to put an IV in a cat or intubating somebody's lizard. What about putting an IV in Dorothy? Is that even possible?

He'll stick to treating humans, thank you very much.

The vet is a cordial young woman who's clad in green scrubs and has a stethoscope around her neck, just like any other doctor. She shakes his hand, takes one look inside the cage, and says, "Aww, I love Roborovskis. Aren't they just the best?"

"To be entirely honest, I don't know all that much about them. This is my daughter's hamster," Arthur sheepishly says as he opens the cage and tries to figure out a way to make himself useful. Should he pick Dorothy up? Will she bite him? That would be quite a rude way of repaying him for trying to save her life.

"I see! How old's your daughter, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Six."

"Aww, how sweet. I bet this little one means a lot to her. Okay, let's have a look," the vet says cheerfully, reaching a hand into the cage and taking out the critter. She nestles Dorothy in her palm and turns her over on her back to look at her belly. "You know, I'm pretty surprised—most parents don't bother taking their kid's hamster to the vet. They'd just get a new one."

Arthur laughs nervously, pretending not to have had that same thought run through his mind no less than an hour ago. "Well, that seems rather unfair."

"Yeah, but you know, hamsters of this breed usually only live for about two years max, so I guess it's understandable…No signs of any tumors, so that's good. Notice any bleeding recently?"

"Umm, no, not that I know of."

"I'm willing to bet it's just an infection because I don't have reason to believe it's anything more serious. She's pretty dehydrated though. I'm gonna prescribe her some antibiotics. I'll give her the first dose now so you can see how to do it," the vet decides. "Here, hold her for a second while I go and get some supplies."

Arthur takes the hamster and frowns down at her. Maybe she'll pull through after all.

Meanwhile, the vet returns with a vial of medicine, a syringe, and a needle.

Fantastic. _What_ has he gotten himself into?

"All right, so this is some gentamicin. You're gonna have to give her two milligrams twice a day, and it's a subcutaneous injection. I know some people can get freaked out by it. Have you ever done anything like this before?"

He hands the hamster back to the vet and just barely holds back a groan. He's going to have to stick a needle in Amelia's hamster twice a day? Great.

Francis was right. They should have let it go peacefully.

"I'm a medical doctor, but I've never given an injection to a hamster before."

The vet laughs, very amused, and says, "Well, it's just like giving it to a human, but you just have to be much gentler…Don't look at me like that—you'll do fine. I bet you're a natural at this. So, you wanna do it in a fatty area, obviously. Keep in mind that Roborovskis can bite, so you'll want to be careful. Here, just watch…"

The vet pushes the tiny needle into Dorothy's left thigh, and although she flinches in surprise, she, fortunately, doesn't bite.

"And that's it! You can offer her a yogurt drop or some kind of snack afterward to make it up to her," the vet adds with another bright smile. "Give it to her until she starts to show some signs of improvement—around the time she starts getting her appetite back. I'll give you a medicine dropper, too, because you're going to have to make her drink some water regularly until she gets her strength back. Just pull her chin down and slowly feed it to her—you don't want her to choke."

She makes it sound so easy when it clearly isn't, but he's in too deep to refuse to treat Dorothy now.

"And if you do all of that, I have a feeling she'll be fine! Good luck, okay? The staff at the front desk will give you a bill for everything. Goodnight!"

"Thank you. Goodnight," Arthur weakly replies, placing Dorothy back in her cage. She had better appreciate his efforts.

There's a first time for everything, isn't there?

At least he managed to save one life today, no matter how small.

* * *

"Mrrghh?"

"Shh, go back to sleep."

"Mmmph," Francis mumbles, eyelids fluttering in the darkness as the bed dips under Arthur's weight. "How did it go?"

Arthur laughs softly and sneaks a hand onto Francis's forehead, checking his temperature—he's mildly warm like before. Then, he gets comfortable on his side of the bed, pulls the covers up to his waist, and says, "You don't want to know. Long story short, Dorothy should make it through this. Now, sleep and get some rest."

"Where is it?"

"The hamster? On the dresser. You might hear her shuffling about in her cage. She already seems to be doing somewhat better," Arthur explains in between a yawn. He turns around so that he's facing Francis and can peer at him critically to make sure he's not too ill. Then, he deems that it's okay for him to go to sleep as well.

The remainder of the night passes by fairly peacefully, and when their alarm rings at six in the morning so they can get the girls dressed and ready for school, Arthur is surprised that he managed to sleep through Francis's congested breathing and occasional coughing. He must have been more tired than he thought.

But most importantly, Dorothy is still alive.

Francis sleeps through the alarm, and Arthur lets him stay in bed. He can get the girls ready on his own, and his husband could use the extra rest. He makes sure the covers are tucked snugly around him and feels his forehead once more before going about the morning (still a low-grade fever).

Before anything else though, he has to give Dorothy her antibiotic, and he should do it before the girls get up and see what he's doing. He's pretty sure Amelia will be traumatized if she sees him sticking a needle into her pet, so it's best if he gets it over with now.

He preps the syringe, carefully takes Dorothy out of her cage, and whispers to her, "Sorry about this, but it's for your own good."

Why is he consoling a hamster? Parenthood has made him soft.

With as much vigilance as he is capable of, he gives her the medicine in her right thigh—opposite to where she received it yesterday, and, unsurprisingly, Dorothy _bites_ him even though she didn't bite the vet who was a complete and utter stranger!

Thankfully, her teeth don't break into his skin or draw any blood. She simply gnaws on his thumb. Still, it twinges, and once he puts her back in her cage, he rubs his thumb vigorously to ease the pain.

"If you don't behave yourself, you won't get a treat," Arthur warns the hamster, but he gives her one of the yogurt drops Amelia often feeds her anyway and watches her happily munch on it. When she's done, he picks her up again and tries to force-feed her some water through the medicine dropper the vet gave him. She doesn't seem to enjoy it because she wriggles and squeaks and tries to jump out of his grasp.

He relents after getting at least some water into her and lets her go back to her daily hamster activities. Her food bowl is full and so is her water dispenser, so she should be fine until the evening.

He then goes to wake up the girls, but he's too late because they beat him to it. By the time he steps out into the hall, they're already up and coming out of their respective bedrooms. Both children are droopy-eyed and in their pajamas, and when Amelia sees him, her eyes shimmer with tears as she asks, "Is Dorothy okay?"

He nods at her reassuringly and rubs her shoulder. "Yes, my dear. Dorothy is just fine. Your papa and I are keeping an eye on her in our room until she recovers."

Amelia hugs his legs and murmurs an adorable "thank you" that makes Arthur feel like the best dad ever.

"Where's Papa?" Madeline asks, cutting his moment of triumph short.

"He's sleeping in. He's not feeling well," he explains as he leans down to peck each of the girl's cheeks.

"But he's supposed to come to class for Career Day," Amelia pouts. "He baked cookies and everything!"

"I'm sorry, girls, but Papa needs to stay home today."

Amelia suddenly snaps her fingers and smiles. "I know! Why don't you come to Career Day, Dad?"

No, no, no. The last thing he wants to do today is stand in front of a classroom full of hyperactive and bacteria-breeding children. He should stay here and watch over Francis and Dorothy. Besides, this is supposed to be his day to relax. He wants to have a cup of tea, read the paper, and do nothing.

"Please, please, please?" Amelia begs, folding her hands together.

"No, I'm afraid not. I'm needed here."

"Pretty, pretty, pretty, please?" Madeline joins in, standing by her sister's side as backup.

"I said _no_. Now, both of you get dressed and come downstairs for breakfast. I won't say it again."

"But Daaaaad—everyone's parents are coming. You havta come."

"Amelia, stop whining and—"

He cuts himself off when he hears Madeline sniffle. She seems disappointed, to say the least, and Arthur feels his chest contract.

"W-What if everyone thinks we don't have parents?" she says woefully, and that's when Arthur knows he has to drop everything and go to the damned school.

"Oh, all right," he sighs, letting out a weary breath. "I'll go."

"Yay!" both girls cheer in unison, and Madeline's sniffling suddenly stops—that child can certainly be manipulative when she wants to be, sometimes even more so than her sister.

When did he become such a pushover?

He cares too much, and if he keeps this up, he's going to wind up in trouble, of that, he's sure.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note:** Hi, everyone! Here's another chapter! I hope you enjoy it! :D

* * *

As he walks into the red-bricked elementary school, hands interlocked within each of his daughters', it occurs to him just how precious and fleeting this all is. It feels like last week he was still struggling to learn how to change a diaper, and now, the girls are somehow already in the first grade, learning how to read and write sentences. While they may be holding onto his hands like he's their lifeline for now, he knows that before long, they'll be letting go—too big to be so attached to him.

He is led down a long, colorful hallway covered in children's arts and crafts projects. Somewhere among these sketches of blue skies and bright yellow suns are his girls' drawings. He must make a mental note to remember these moments—these days when the girls are still shorter than waist height and are full of all of the energy and life of children who are still amazed by the wondrous new world around them. And for a helpless second, he wishes they could stay this small and happy forever.

When did he become such a sentimental old man? If Francis could hear his thoughts right now, he'd most certainly start to laugh.

Speaking of Francis, his husband calls him before he has the chance to enter the girls' classroom, finally awake after sleeping in for a good chunk of the morning. He sounds a little gruff and nasally, still nursing his headache and perpetually stuffed nose.

"So, you decided to attend Career Day after all?" Francis goads.

"I was coerced."

"Ahh, that makes more sense," he chuckles, and it sounds like he's starting to develop a cough, so it's a good thing he stayed home. "Did you bring the cookies I baked?"

"Yes, I have them in the plastic container you left on the kitchen counter."

"Good. _Merci_."

"Did you take a dose of ibuprofen and more of that decongestant?"

"I will in a minute, but do not worry about me, _mon amour_. Just enjoy your day with the children."

Arthur frowns although he knows Francis can't see him. While he gets along swimmingly with the twins, he isn't as accepting of other children. "I shall make a half-hearted effort."

"Don't you mean whole-hearted?"

"No."

"Arthur, please, don't cause any trouble."

His frown quickly turns into a dry smile. "I can see your faith in me leaves much to be desired. What trouble could I possibly cause?"

"You know what I mean. I'm a part of the PTA. I have a reputation to uphold, so please do not smear the family name."

He fails to suppress his snort of amusement. "I won't besmirch your pristine image just yet…I have to go. I'll check in with you later. Remember—bed rest and fluids. Call if your fever spikes or your symptoms worsen."

"I will be fine. Good luck in there. Do not frighten the poor children, all right?"

"Frighten them? What are you insinuating?"

"Nothing. Never mind. Goodbye—take good care of the girls."

Francis hangs up, and Arthur is left to glare at his phone in silence.

"Dad! Come on!" Amelia suddenly exclaims, tugging on his arm as she skips toward one of the many classroom doors. At this rate, she's going to pull his arm out of its socket.

He's not sure what his specific expectations were when he agreed to do this, but before he can properly mentally prepare, he finds himself standing before twenty shrill and incredibly loud children as well as a handful of parents.

Clearly, the girls exaggerated when they claimed _all_ of the parents would be attending. There are only eight of them—himself included.

He greets Mrs. Lauren, the girls' teacher, by shaking her hand. He has met her before—back when Madeline was struggling to socialize with the other children, and he, Francis, and Mrs. Lauren had to come up with ways to get her to warm up to her peers.

He explains that he'll be substituting for Francis today because his husband has fallen ill—but, never fear, the cookies have been salvaged and delivered as promised.

"We're happy to have you, Dr. Kirkland. I think this'll be a great opportunity to teach the children about the importance of taking care of one's health. Feel free to join the other parents at the back of the room," Mrs. Lauren kindly says, taking the container of cookies that he's been carrying in his messenger bag. "We'll give these out during lunch. Give Francis my thanks."

Amelia and Madeline have already found their seats, and they appear to be quite excited that he's here with them because they keep glancing over at him to see what he's doing. At one point, Amelia gestures her hand toward him and proudly tells one of her classmates, "That's my dad over there!"

Not sure whether he should be flattered or flustered, Arthur settles for something in between and takes a seat beside the other parents, briefly introducing himself to them. He's going to have to mingle, isn't he? What is he supposed to talk about? The girls? Work? How his head hurts because of all of the squeals and uproarious talking going on between the children?

He folds his hands in his lap and tries to act natural despite how uncomfortable he is.

Finally, Mrs. Lauren quiets the class and gives a short lecture to the students about how they can grow up to be anyone they want to be—possibly even the next president or Bill Gates (except Arthur has serious doubts about whether the children even know who Bill Gates is).

And then, one by one, parents start offering themselves up as tribute at the head of the class. They are expected to give a short introduction about themselves and then spend some time explaining what their careers are, what their jobs entail, and what their favorite part of their work is.

The first parent to present is a firefighter. He was clever enough to bring props and allows the children to pass his hard hat and fireproof gloves around the classroom. Naturally, most of the students are enamored and regard him as a superhero. They "ooh" and "ahh" each time he tells a story about how he had to bravely burst into a burning building to save a cat, dog, or baby.

" _That's so cool!"_

 _"I wanna be a firefighter!"_

" _Don't you ever get scared?"_

" _You get to live in the firehouse?"_

His fifteen-minute speech ends up being a big hit, and everyone applauds him with fervor. Even Arthur finds himself being impressed and a little intimidated by just how charismatic the man is.

And then, Arthur gets the worst possible news.

"Dr. Kirkland, why don't you come up next?" Mrs. Lauren decides, and Arthur wants to sink in his chair and disappear. Now he remembers why he hated school as a child.

How is he supposed to top the fireman?

The twins look at him with wide hopeful eyes, and so, he gathers his messenger bag of medical supplies and tools and carefully ambles his way up to the front of the room, feeling dozens of gazes upon him.

He clears his throat awkwardly, straightens his posture, and plasters a hesitant smile onto his face.

"Good morning," he begins, palms sweating.

"Good morning, Dad!" Amelia cheerfully shouts from her desk.

Mrs. Lauren and the parents laugh, falling for Amelia's cuteness—and who can blame them? Arthur falls for it, too, because his heart grows a little lighter, and his smile isn't quite as strained thanks to her enthusiasm.

"Thank you, poppet…As some of you may know, I'm Amelia and Madeline's father. I work in internal medicine—" he stops himself. These children won't understand any medical jargon or complicated titles. He's going to have to keep this simple. "I'm a doctor. I'm sure you've all been to a doctor before."

One of the boys in the class raises his hand, looking anxious and itching to ask a question.

Arthur raises a brow at him. He thought questions were supposed to be reserved for the end, but there's no harm in answering them now. "Yes, lad?"

"Do you give shots?"

Well, this is a trap. He needs to be careful with how he replies. It was wise of him not to wear his white coat, as that would have made this a hundred times worse.

"Uhh…Yes, but they're necessary to keep healthy and—"

The class cuts him off by giving a unified squawk and shriek of disapproval. Only Amelia and Madeline stay silent, petrified by their classmates' reactions. One boy even bursts into tears.

" _I hate doctors!"_

 _"I got a shot once and it hurt!"_

 _"Doctors are scary!"_

" _Booooo!"_

" _Doctors suck!"  
_

Mrs. Lauren steps in with a stern expression on her face and scolds everyone by saying, "You're all being very disrespectful to our guest! Dr. Kirkland took time out of his day to speak to us. I want you all to apologize to him!"

Now he knows what Francis meant about scaring the children and causing trouble. He should have stayed home on the couch.

The class mumbles a "sorry," but the damage has been done, and Arthur wants nothing more but to sit back down before he can make a fool of himself further.

"Please, continue, Dr. Kirkland. I apologize," Mrs. Lauren says, sending him a remorseful smile.

Does he _have_ to continue? That one boy to his left is still crying, eyes red and puffy.

"Why don't you tell us why going to see a doctor regularly is important?" Mrs. Lauren encourages, trying to lighten the abysmal mood of the room.

He looks over at Madeline and Amelia and pretends he's only talking to them, as that makes this somewhat easier.

"Seeing your doctor often for check-ups and vaccinations is a way to make sure you're growing properly and that you're staying healthy," he explains weakly. "While no one enjoys receiving vaccines, they can prevent you from contracting illnesses like chicken pox, measles, rubella, hepatitis, and more."

Now another child raises her hand—a girl to the right.

"My mom says vaccines are bad," she says.

He takes a deep breath and forces another smile. "Well, some parents worry that vaccines cause autism, but there isn't any evidence to prove this. Most doctors agree that it is better and safer to get your vaccinations than to not get them at all."

"And no one should be scared of seeing their doctor, right?" Mrs. Lauren supplies helpfully.

"Right," he says, even though he's sure ninety percent of the class hates him and has stopped listening.

He was going to do a little demonstration to teach the children about how stethoscopes and otoscopes work as well as how these tools can help diagnose illness in various parts of the body, but now he sees he shouldn't bother. He's not going to be able to redeem himself now that he has failed this miserably.

So instead, he talks about diet and why they should eat their fruits and vegetables for a good five minutes. He even lamely jokes about the whole "apple a day keeps the doctor away" thing except it falls flat. He hurriedly adds that his favorite part of his job is helping to relieve patients' suffering (he doesn't mention how he himself feels as though he's suffering in this very moment), and then he concludes his speech before the students can ask any further questions.

It was disastrous, to say the least.

As Mrs. Lauren calls up the next parent, he allows himself a sigh and pointedly keeps his eyes away from the girls, feeling bad for disappointing them. They must be incredibly embarrassed. This wouldn't have happened if Francis were here instead.

Arthur is the antonym of charming and charismatic, and now, he must pay the price for it.

* * *

He is eventually saved from his self-wallowing by the lunch bell.

Apparently, the parents are being treated to catered sandwiches, salads, and soups in the cafeteria, and they're supposed to return after recess to do some activities with the children. Arthur isn't sure what these "activities" are supposed to be, but he's sure he'll just end up ruining the day for everyone once more, regardless of what will be asked of him.

There's a table set aside for them in the cafeteria, but Arthur can't even bear the thought of sitting there because the only available seat when he arrives with his sandwich and cup of tea is the chair right next to the fireman who helped put his presentation to shame.

Don't get him wrong–he's neither bitter nor jealous...All right, so maybe he's a tad bitter...

It doesn't help when Ms. Lauren hands out the cookies Francis baked and they're immediately devoured with gusto. He can hear Amelia having a raucous discussion with some of her classmates and telling them, "My papa made these! He's the best chef and baker ever!"

So even when Francis isn't around, he still manages to be more likable than Arthur.

Arthur doesn't find that surprising.

He's able to protect what's left of his pride when he turns his head around and sees Madeline sitting with a few other girls at another table across from her sister. She doesn't appear to be talking to any of the girls, choosing instead to keep her gaze directed at her apple slices and peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

The seat to her right is empty, and so, Arthur goes over to her and somehow musters a gentle smile despite how awful he's feeling about everything that's happened.

"Hello, love. May I sit here?" he asks.

Madeline nods and continues picking at her lunch. "Hi, Dad."

He sets his cup of tea down and finally sits, sighing a little when he feels his joints ache. "I hope you're enjoying the day despite how terrible my presentation was."

"It wasn't terrible."

"Oh, thank you, poppet, but there's no need to tell any comforting lies."

Madeline frowns at him and rubs her arm sheepishly. "You try to help people, not hurt them, and your job is really, really hard. I think you were good, Dad."

He tucks a strand of stray hair behind Madeline's ear and says, "I didn't upset you or embarrass you in front of your friends?"

Madeline looks up at him thoughtfully and shakes her head firmly. "No...I'm happy you came."

"Thank you. It's a relief to hear that...But why aren't you eating your lunch, then? Is there something wrong with it? Would you prefer my sandwich?" he offers, ready to trade if need be.

"No...It makes me sad that you're sad."

"I'm not sad," Arthur insists. Frustrated with himself, perhaps, but not sad.

Perhaps he deserves this. It's what he gets for trying to remedy too many things at once. First with Mrs. Brown, then with putting Dorothy through veterinary treatment when he could have just let her go peacefully, and now, he has spoiled Career Day.

"Dad?"

"Yes, my dear?"

"I think you and Papa are the best," Madeline murmurs, seeming less troubled now. Somehow, she always knows what to say, and she doesn't have to say much to get her point across. It's a quality Arthur admires in her.

He thanks her, pecks the top of her head with a kiss, and they finish their lunches together. Madeline tells him how she has learned how maple syrup is made because she watched a program about it on TV the other day, and Arthur happily listens, spirit bolstered after her little pep-talk.

When the children go out into the schoolyard for recess, the parents have the option of waiting in the teacher's lounge or helping to chaperone the students, and though he will later regret his choice, Arthur decides some fresh air will help clear his mind, so he follows Mrs. Lauren and the class of first graders outside.

He sees Amelia and Madeline start up a game of hopscotch with some other girls while the rest of the students either play on the school's jungle gym or run about to let out some of their pent-up energy from sitting in their desks all morning.

And then, as is customary to him by now, all hell breaks loose.

The very same boy who asked him about shots during his talk somehow loses his grip on the monkey bars, falls, and hits his head against one of the metal support beams with a sharp _thunk_.

The effect is instantaneous. The children who witness the fall gasp and scream while the injured boy lets out a howling wail that can undoubtedly be heard by the other parents who are inside of the school building.

Arthur takes an instinctual step forward to help, but there's a split second of hesitation in his reaction. Maybe he should let Mrs. Lauren handle this.

He doesn't have to intervene…

But who is he kidding? He can't just stand here idly and gape at the scene. It's his moral obligation to do something, even if it's not legally his responsibility.

So, he rushes over to the boy and gets to him before Mrs. Lauren does. He waves a hand at the children who are gathered too close and orders, "Don't crowd around him. Everyone, step back."

His tone must be firm enough to sound formidable because the children listen and clear some space around their fallen classmate. Arthur notices, however, that Amelia and Madeline are now standing right beside him, watching intently to see what he's going to do.

Arthur crouches down and puts one hand on the boy's shoulder, intending to soothe him, while his other hand carefully runs over the back of his head to survey the damage. He's going to have an awful welt tomorrow.

Arthur feels a spot of stickiness under his fingertips but remains completely calm. If he betrays any concern or emotion, he'll frighten the boy even more.

"It's all right, lad. Don't be upset," he says as the boy sobs and trembles on the rubber matting of the schoolyard. "What's your name, love?"

"P-Patrick," the boy hiccups, swiping hand over his eyes.

"Is it, now? My brother's name is Patrick," Arthur murmurs as he cautiously coaxes the boy's head toward him, and that's when he sees the wound hiding underneath tufts of chestnut brown hair. Patrick must have hit one of the screws of the metal beams and gave himself a rather deep laceration. He's going to need a CT scan and some sutures.

Mrs. Lauren joins him and does her best to calm the boy while Arthur continues checking him over. A laceration like this can easily be closed and shouldn't pose a major problem. He's more concerned about a concussion or possible hemorrhaging.

"Let's sit you up," Arthur suggests to Patrick, supporting his back as he rises. Then, he looks into the boy's gaze and scans his pupils—they appear normal for now.

"It hurts a lot," Patrick whines, trying to touch the wound.

Arthur carefully pulls his hand away and says, "I know. That was quite the fall, but you're going to be just fine."

From behind him, Amelia shouts, "Yeah, Patrick, don't worry! My dad'll make sure you're okay!"

Ahh, so now she's on his side again? Just like that, he has gone from a negative approval rating to an acceptable one.

"Do you know your days of the week?" he asks, moving on with his assessment. While he waits for an answer, he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, folds it into a square, and holds it against the boy's wound, applying a bit of pressure.

"Yeah, I'm not a baby!" Patrick says defensively in the midst of his crying.

"Then could you tell me what day it is?"

"Monday."

"That's right. You're a clever boy," Arthur commends before making another request, "And can you recite the alphabet?"

"A, B, C, D, E, F, G…"

Arthur nods and lets the boy know he doesn't have to continue. Then, he turns to Mrs. Lauren and instructs, "You'll need to contact his guardian."

"Right, of course. I'll find out from the office—" she says, trailing off as they finally get Patrick to stand on his feet. Clearly, she's frazzled just like her class of students. "I'll take him to the nurse's office. Could you watch the children for a few minutes?"

He doesn't have a choice, does he?

He nods and lets Mrs. Lauren take Patrick under her wing, but not before showing her how to keep a steady amount of pressure on the boy's still bleeding injury.

He liked that handkerchief…Oh, well.

He watches Patrick and Mrs. Lauren go back into the school building, and when he turns his attention back to the remainder of the class, it occurs to him that the students have been gawking at him in horror all of this time.

"Patrick cracked his head open!" one girl shouts, and everyone else gets riled up as a result.

"Hey, hey, hey!" Arthur scolds them, trying to maintain civil order. "He's going to be perfectly fine with the proper medical attention."

"His brain is gonna leak outta his head!" someone else exclaims.

Where do these children get these twisted ideas?

"That's not going to happen," he assures, but the children don't seem convinced.

Suddenly, he feels small arms wrap around his waist, and when he lowers his gaze, he realizes that it's Madeline.

"Thank you," she whispers, squeezing him tightly.

"What for, poppet?"

"For helping."

"Oh, you don't need to thank me for that. It's my job."

Madeline ignores him and simply thanks him again, blue eyes wide with gratitude.

Maybe he still has a few fans left after all.

Or just one. And one is enough.

* * *

Despite the fiasco at recess, the day's events continue as planned after Patrick gets picked up by his mother and taken to an urgent care clinic. Fortunately, at no point does his brain leak out of his head.

As for everyone else, it's time for the students to draw where they see themselves in twenty years and who they want to be when they grow up. The parents get to watch and mingle some more, but frankly, Arthur is all mingled out for the day. He's ready to return to his congested, raspy-voiced husband, as Francis is probably missing his presence by now and will be whining about how he was left alone for so long in his desperate time of need, even though he insisted he'd be all right on his own earlier today.

When the children are finished with their drawings, they're asked to present their work. As expected, most of the children are aspiring to be policemen, firefighters, teachers, professional athletes, etc. No one says they want to be a doctor though, which is a little disheartening. One boy bravely says he wants to be a nurse like his uncle, but that's all in terms of vocations in medicine.

Amelia says she wants to be an astronaut, which Arthur already knows, but then again, his daughter has a habit of changing who she wants to be every month, as children often do.

But then, Madeline surprises him for the umpteenth time that day. She proudly announces that she wants to grow up to be like her papa and her dad. She wants to cook and bake excellent food like Francis, but she also wants to help the sick, and so, perhaps she will be a master chef and a physician. Who says she can't be both?

Arthur entertains the idea and feels a warm smile cross his face as Madeline explains how her papa makes perfect croissants and how her dad can cure just about any kind of illness (which is very generous of her to say because he certainly _does not_ have all of the answers).

"I wanna make lots of pancakes and crepes, so no one ever goes hungry, and I wanna make people all better again when they don't feel well."

He can't wait to tell Francis all about this, and how maybe, Madeline will follow in his footsteps and go into medicine (being a chef can be her side job or hobby), but her main career path can be in pulmonology or immunology or any other respectable –ology. They can start teaching her some basic anatomy now—like Francis always says, it's never too early to consider the girls' educations, and maybe Madeline will be the best in her field and conduct additional research that'll win her a Nobel Prize.

"But if she just wants to make crepes all day, we can let her do that, too," Francis will say later, a cheeky grin on his lips.

And Arthur will shove a spoonful of cough syrup into his mouth and tell him to stop crushing his dreams.

* * *

Two days after Career Day, Francis and Dorothy finally make full recoveries. Dorothy goes back to eating and drinking normally, and Francis is back to nagging Arthur about what a bad husband he is because he forgot to wish the Frenchman's second cousin twice removed a happy birthday.

"You fixed her!" Amelia cheers, taking the Dorothy out of her cage and nestling her between her hands when Arthur informs her of the good news.

"Yes, she seems to be feeling much better now. I gave her a yogurt drop a few minutes ago, so don't overfeed her."

Amelia dashes off with the hamster so she can show her to Madeline, and Arthur lets out a long sigh of relief, glad that one crisis has been dealt with.

"You did the right thing," Francis murmurs, coming up from behind him and wrapping his arms around his waist. "I was wrong and you were right. You can brag now."

Arthur rolls his eyes and pulls away from him, a dry smile dancing on his lips. "I won't brag as long as you vow to never make me volunteer at the girls' school for anything ever again."

Francis snorts with laughter and nods his head. "Okay, we have a deal."

* * *

He's back to the humdrum work at the office, writing out prescriptions and examining colds, rashes, and infections. This is as exciting as his day ever gets. Part of him misses working in the emergency department, as his patients there had a more diverse range of illnesses and problems. That said, transitioning from a hospital to a private practice was a necessary evil, especially since the girls are still so young and need both him and Francis around. And besides, someone needs to diagnose atopic dermatitis and explain to patients why they can't take antibiotics to treat their colds.

That afternoon, however, is when the highlight of his day takes place.

Mrs. Brown returns to the office, and she looks chipper as opposed to when Arthur last saw her. She even does him the courtesy of shaking his hand and asks him how he's doing as he enters the exam room, and frankly, he's a bit taken aback.

"How are the children doing? Almost done with the school year?" she continues, all sunshine and smiles.

He nods and stays professional. "They're well, thank you, and yes, they'll be on summer break in a few weeks."

"Any vacation plans yet?"

"Well, the girls want to go to Disney World."

"Oh, that sounds like fun."

Arthur chuckles wearily. "It sounds like a headache waiting to happen, but we'll see…How have you been feeling? Did you try the new medication?"

To his absolute surprise, Mrs. Brown nods, "I did, and it's been helping."

She's not lying because when he listens to her lungs, they sound better than they did last time, so she really must be taking her medication.

"That's wonderful to hear."

"Do you know what did it?" she asks him.

Well, it certainly couldn't have been due to his frequent lectures because those never seemed to make a difference.

"It was my grandson…The other day he said to me, 'Grandma, you have to live to be 112 because that's how old the oldest person in the world is,' and I told him I would try my best…That boy needs me…I have to be around for him. Have you ever felt that way?"

"Yes…I understand."

"I've cut down on smoking, too. I don't know how much that'll help me now, but I'm trying..."

Arthur nods reassuringly and offers her a small smile. "It'll make a difference, and you should start to see some significant improvements."

"Thank you for being patient with me. I know I gave you a hard time the other day."

"Oh, it's no trouble."

He finishes examining her, gets her to take another breathing test, and lets her know she has nothing to worry about—she's going to be around for her grandson for a long time.

* * *

"Have a good day at school, girls, and listen to Mrs. Lauren…Amelia! Not so fast! You forgot your lunch."

Amelia comes running back to the car, takes her rainbow unicorn lunch box from him, and shouts, "Thank you, Daddy!" before swiveling around and intending to sprint off toward her class once more.

"Wait! You forgot one more thing, young lady."

Amelia stops in her tracks, looks between him and Madeline a few times in confusion, and asks, "What?"

"Is there anything you'd like to say to me?" Arthur hints, crossing his arms.

"OH!" Amelia exclaims. "Yeah! Bye! See ya later!"

Arthur slumps his shoulders and frowns. That's all he gets? No hug? No I love you? All that time spent with Francis to make sure the girls were always well-fed, well-dressed, well-loved, and well taken care of, and this is what he gets in return? A _see ya later_?

Fortunately, at least Madeline seems to understand what he's getting at, and she gives him a quick hug followed by an "I love you" before he can sulk too much.

Of course, Amelia gets jealous that her sister is getting all of the attention from him and gives him a hug after all before adding, "I love you more than Maddie does."

"No, you don't," Madeline says with a frown.

"Yeah, I do. Besides, Dad loves me more."

"I love you both," Arthur sighs, attempting to break up the argument. He gives each of the girls a peck on their heads, ties the laces of Madeline's left shoe because they have come undone, and then finally sends them both off. He waits until they are both safely standing with the rest of their class before turning around and getting back into the car.

And as he's getting into the driver's seat, he hears someone shout, "Hi, Amelia and Maddie's dad!"

He raises his brows, looks around, and sees that the boy he helped treat—Patrick—is waving at him from a distance.

He musters a smile, waves back, and watches the boy blend in with a group of his classmates and get caught up in a conversation. It's good to see he's feeling all right now.

Arthur pulls away from the school and starts driving home, still thinking of the girls, Francis, Patrick, Dorothy, and Mrs. Brown and her grandson and how she's going to have to live to be 112.

And he is happy he gets to do what he does.


End file.
